Weightless for all of its two years of need
Unlike my thirty three
That presses, squeezes, grabs, and grasps;
A force that never goes unnoticed
With scars and spots
Coarse, calloused and
Shaking with doing and accomplishing
Numb with use or misuse.
No, his is subtle, unmoving, steady
But for the shift of one small finger
For assurance of my mere presence
Or the twitch of initial sleep
Yet with power to keep one so large unmoved
Daring not to undo this brief moment:
This love.
How long
Before this hand reaches no more
Needs no crossing guard
Touch of comfort
Or encouraging tug
But pushes me away
To court softer hands
To find his strength alone?
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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1 comment:
I remember when you were a young teenager, writing poetry. I rarely understood it, didn't really know if it was good poetry or not, but I encouraged you to send it in to poetry organizations. I loved the writer and her attempts.
But, this poem, I think I get. And it moves me to tears. It seems inspired, and that's the best kind of writing in any form, I think. I hope someday a little boy will grow up and understand both the poem and the depth of feeling that inspired it. Mom
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