Cup the hands into a bed to
hold the sick bird, gently place
on colored leaves; the sky
does not appear to notice,
a piece of it is dying.

Roll the hands like periscope,
frame the moon. A hole of light,
a tunnel to the soul emerges,
haunting, lovely. Later, in the evening
stand beneath the cedar trees; listen

to the silence of its shining.

Open up the hands for sleeping;
fingers poised to catch a dream or
shadows moving over linen hills
like waves of sea. Forget the hands,

the heart will tell you, mark
its drum, the beating darkness.
Use the muscle, its hollow rooms
to capture love.

1 comment:

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...


Your poetry feeds me.