tis not for warmth
these hands are folded –
or curved to catch
the morning light
moved as silent birds to daybreak –
across and with
each sweet delight

was not for grace
or prayers unspoken –
steeple pointed toward the sky
felt the sound
of angels gathered –
just beyond the reach
of I

beyond the pool
of secrets spilling –
kisses rise from words the same
breath was given rhyme
for telling –
loving wings these hands
became

the dreamer’s map
of north star guiding –
someone asks (as someone knows)
what of hands
were made for speaking –
what of words
we meant to hold