I Marvel how Touch touches me

I marvel how touch touches deepest chord, That rest of senses scarce can ever match, Time heals old wounds, touch stays on for long stored, And leaves a sign, a lasting mark to etch, I marvel how touch deep feelings doth fetch. Take the feel of mother's hand on forehead, A garland of hug never going cold, The feelings linger, for lifetime are spread, Say of a first-born in father's arm-fold, I marvel how touch retains its rare gold. Yet, touch is no feel of a naked skin, Nor yet is it beastly in her raw rage, But springs from emotions welling within, And akin be to spirit's pilgrimage, I marvel how touch suffers no old age. No use has it to a feel-not inert, No melody can bestir a mute soul, Touch touches heart, oft raw nerves to cause hurt, A hand on shoulder, no more, hits the goal, I marvel how touch ever plays its role. A grave mistake be grown-ups' touch if gross, A touch of flesh can soothe or be great sin— An intent ‘tis that holds a Sacred Cross, Skin knows if a touch is malign and mean, I marvel how touch stays forever green. The same way a man embraces his wife, As he may hug his daughter or sister, It is the intention, the edge of knife, It’s head that a hornet’s nest may bestir, I marvel how touch ever does matter. If I feel down and out, nigh as if dead, I need words, flowers nor fragrant blossom, Nor have I use for a thousand words said, Give me a tender hug, a warm bosom, I marvel how touch my deepest chords strum. If bare touch be what should more than suffice, Wary I am of an invading face, A touch can be warm, colder else than ice, Unwanted foothold in my private space, I marvel how touch commands so much grace. Give me clouds in summer, brightest rainbows, A soulful melody, smile of a child, Butterflies and flowers fresh from meadows, They touch my inner soul ever so mild, Yet marvel how touch can be so defiled. ________________________________________ Quintain (Musings) |02.09.2007| touch