A Possibility of Holding
Out where there are dreams of distances
and silences I dare to reach towards
your nakedness with hands that can only
do so little. I never learnt to make things
grow from wood or stone or paper. I never
knew the secrets of planting for the future
preparing to tend for the delicacy of shoots.
All I ever had were these hands,
futile gestures for forms of regret.
I never learnt the delicacy of holding
or the secret of the gentle touch.
It was always too far and I always too late.
My hands fall through empty air to only
reassure the memory of where you sat and cried.
I do not own much and dream of owning less.
I do not desire to hold the cold brick
or shaped metal of property. I only want
endless sky and the greenest of grasses.
Except when rain falls and I want to form
a shelter, build a fire and have someone to hold.
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