In Cupped Hands

In cupped hands you hold a world of scented butterflies where time hangs from a golden thread spun with tears and night where nasturtiums grow from seeds of laughter and there is warmth over the rainbow. In cupped hands you see a castle hovering in the air with domes of silver pointing toward a world that lies beyond with long-drawn windows shaped like almond eyes that wink and call upon a winding wind. In cupped hands you preserve an unspoken dream that is stilled in a cosmos pool dappled with sunlight that may all be lost with just a jerk of your fingers and shatter into illusions of watercolor paintings. In cupped hands you nestle the lost ending to a song In cupped hands you hold a glimpse of what is real.