Friday, March 06, 2009

His Gentle Hands

His Gentle Hands

Last night I thought
for a second
that I had forgotten Dad’s birthday

Look at the day
no snow, no cold
and I feel well

Pull in driveway
search my mind, numbers, dates

A tear rolls from beneath my shades
as I step into
the sunlight
and stand
in a time-pocket

Hot neck and face burn
while my father’s hands caress
and the wind breathes
through the blue silkiness of my shirt
into my skin
out and into the forest again.

Revel, bask, bathe in this warmth
this day, this warm metacarpus
touching my features

I worship the sky
and rinse
my soul in showers of rays

Blue silk body
leans forward
but my visage does not

His gentle hands remain

And there she was
holding me in her arms
We danced in the wind and sunlight:
A very slow-motion.
Back and forth, we swayed

Hue prisms through my wet lashes
separates incandescent green, and reveals
a transparent tranquility, and our movement rests

“You know I still haven’t caught anything.”
“ What do you mean?” she said as I gazed up
and pointed at the overhead power-lines
which had a piece of fishing line with a river-sinker
and hook, hanging there as if below the lines
a body of water existed.

And we both laughed, into the open air
laughed for a few seconds
and returned to our lover’s clutch
to sway and cry in one another’s arms.


Blogger Rain said...

Nice imagery. We often feel the spirits in the wind.

4:13 PM  
Blogger Sir James E. Watkins said...


We do.

10:23 PM  
Blogger tiger said...


2:50 PM  
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5:23 AM  

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