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THIS LOVELY HAND OF YOURS

 

The fine warmth and pulse of it – beauty gets

a sounding in the oldest skin, it takes

the flutterings of veins and chimes them through.

The mind slows and alters – as in the grove

of midnight you place a hand on top of mine

then sleep, full-upright in your blue-winged chair,

TV on, the weekend’s busyness – a grand-

daughter’s wedding – now over.  Dark clocks round,

intimate and mute. Inside the space that

two hands make, I have you travelling with the stars,

your palm – enclosure of will and dream – lit

with the scripts of all your being and becoming,

the long, long story of your time.

In this gift of moment, I find myself

humming and whole, stopped at the centre

of whatever your hand has held,

between the moon’s abundance and the sun’s.

 

 

 

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