Wednesday, February 18, 2015

old hands

Old wrinkled hands held me up
helped me from the water
coughing, frightened
new naked soul.

While we walked down
a periwinkle street in a picture
from your past, a message-
never be afraid to fall
you will stand without a waver
with the hands beneath your feet.

And took did I their strength of age.
The wrinkles hills of green
fertile with hope of growth
of a grandson's dreams.
And there I planted
to grow from the hands
ascending to the heavens.

The soul that smiled
and the eyes that laughed
as a child in the treetops
now says to them:

Rest tired hands
you have earned your reprise.
Withered, shriveled under my feet
your ground I have swallowed
but still strong you held
like the era that colors your wonder,

Beautiful old wrinkled hands!
Talk to me with wavering voices
tell of your stories, your secrets
your heroes, your desires. I'll sit.
Hours are nothing when hearing from you.

Maybe then some strong young hands
fresh as a bright summer moon
orange in a foggy sky
can lift you to the height
you lofted me long ago.

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