Hands
When I hold the sun in the prayer shape
of my hands, the fidelity of the light -
a warmth peeking through, a formation
of angles that decorate - plots your
name into my palms. These beams
are like scaffolding, workers of joy;
Damsel fly wings whose structures
kiss the light and piece together
stain glass windows of green
and blue. Within the curve of my
fingers - a smile of yours - a play
reveals, otter sweet; shapes that
move as if a turbine of love
enough for all the waters of
the earth to meet. The soft
petal brush of what your fingers
display, moves me like the
rush of spring - peels the folds
back of tired leaves, the bud
inside, a pocket of hope
stroked out of its curling sleep
to vine itself in the comfort
of your hands; flower cupping
tools of love.
Tom Harding
Wed 17th Oct 2012 18:56
lovely... enjoyed this
shapes that
move as if a turbine of love
enough for all the waters of
the earth to meet. The soft
petal brush of what your fingers
display, moves me like the
rush of spring