Everybody in my family has different hands.
Ayden’s hands are short and agile for a two year old.
They love to turn the pages of books, fit puzzle pieces
together, and play games on touch screens.
Ellie’s hands are small and slow.
She reaches up to be held and rubs her sleepy eyes
with her chubby little fist.
Her hands love to clap and explore textures.
My hands are coarse, hard and practiced,
dexterous as a monkey climbing a tree.
But my wife’s hands,
my wife’s hands are soft and thin
and fair like a porcelain doll,
smooth as a polished vase but warm
as a mountain meadow in springtime and
every bit as fragrant,
gentle as a silken petal brushing my cheek,
and when she touches me
her hands are the doll,
the meadow in Spring,
the pedal on my cheek—
When I lay here with you
I feel as if we’re boulders
touching in a mountain stream,
and time rushes onward
all around us,
fast with a Spingtime thaw
or slow with slushy frost—
now choked with leaves
and broken sticks
now thundering by
in seething foam.
The seasons blur before us
and wash the world
but here we are
I love they way your eyes turn up
on either side when you smile.
They do the same for everyone, I’m sure,
but yours are the only ones that infect me.
And when you fix your hair,
and ask me how you look,
and smile in the way you do
I simply cannot help myself –
and then I smile too.