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Sunday, April 03, 2011

Poem - Four Views of Your Hands

Woven between my fingers,
your essence and
your power. You are
the warp; I am the weft.
When our hands move
we make a pattern
that rivals the rarest
Persian rug.

I hear your music and
soul in the clicking keys;
your fingers make deep,
moving currents of your
love on the page.
I am amazed at the
way pain and love can
be conveyed by such a
singular, monotone that
only changes in frequency,
not in quality.

With one hand you are
able to control the car;
I hold the other so
that I can distract you
from your driving.
We roll along in ecstasy.

There is wisdom and experience
in your perpetually cold hand;
Rubbing, and kissing only warms
it for a moment. As I trace the
contours and lines around the
nails, I see a flush come to your
face; I know your hand will be
warm for some time now.

Note: This is an old poem. I'm not certain when I wrote it; I do
know it had to be early in my relationship with Colleen. I don't
remember if I shared it with her either. I hope I did.
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