Hands
Pen in fingers, I’m writing waves
that lap across the page,
moving words as if from mind to mind,
memory-rhythms that reach beyond
acquaintance, extending
their uncharted sea –
as at dusk I might lift empty
hands, let go last-light,
a little dust that’s laid away,
not swept; or like the ashes
that still hold a thought of fire,
the stove grown cold.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
