Naked, bare,

the first to touch,

the last to let go.

Her hands support my back,

bringing me close to her frame.

Gently move hair away from my forehead

to inspect my face.

Down over my shoulder and neck,

bringing me closer still,

directing a kiss; it’s you.

 

But I   have watched her pocket them, fold them,

hide them, glove them.

And I too, have watched them struggle to obey her dreams.

Flesh and moisture, which softened their surface,

melted away with age.

Skin submerged deep around veins, and ligaments, and bones.

To remind her,

and to remind me,

they have grown old.

 

I lifted them, cradled them, and inspected them.

Turned them over, and over again.

And held them up.

Oh what beautiful hands.

I rested my head on their surface, and listened.

 

And to watch them move, Gracefully they move,

I am reminded of all the hands, these hands have cupped,

have warmed, have directed, have washed clean,

have taught, have moved, have molded,

have greeted and waved good-bye,

cleared faces of tears.