A Hand In Time

I view my hand. I see an ancient land. A melanomic crater, deep in the desert, speaks of greedy sun-soaked days. Wanton then. Gone now. Sparse wispy palm trees cluster, storm ravaged, angled randomly, now almost invisible, now silver in the light. Ravines compressed in lines symmetrical, as from space, appearing geometric, requiring translation, needing understanding, awaiting exploration. Ahead, beyond the fault line, mountains expand and converge, blue-edged and rising high above the sandy plain, sinuous, majestic, uncharted. Stretching and contracting as wrinkled parchment in a shoreline breeze, pointing the way to the long journey’s end. Translucent and yes still beautiful. A multitude of moments has slowly wrought such change. Soul-stirring eloquence silently tells of times and deeds long past, though yet concealing secrets deep, of silken dreams within a lover’s sleep, and memories of a sweet caress,