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.