His Hands

HIS HANDS
August 28, 2006

His hands, rolling
cumulus over a field
of keys as his fingers
fall like clicking rain
upon the flat surface
of the desk. He lifts his
wrist and drops
his arms and words
appear across a screen
as if by magic; his
mind to read pulled
like weeds out of a flower
bed, roots and all.
Those words once meant
for me, formed of love
and promises, now going
out into the world without
a thought for me.
Even now from the doorway
I lean into, his hands
still heavy and achingly
tender glide over my
belly to stroke my
cheeks, turn fears into
frailty and doubts
into cumulus.