Our Hands

Like an oval stone

worn smooth by time

and constant tide,

my hand fits into thine.


Familiar is the shape

that fondles mine

and deeply satisfies

this aching palm.


Through passages of life

our hands had worked apart;

from selfishness and need

the Sculptor’s work would start.


These hands that toiled

constrained and carried,

bruised, accused, and buried,

wore smooth the calluses of pain;

and through the passages of time

stretched its palm to touch another

and found thy shape fit mine.



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