Saturday, June 25, 2011

In my own hands

I hold the proof to my first book of poetry
In my own hands
I have never had much use for strollers
I held my daughter
And now I hold my son
In my own hands
I don’t carry my daughter as much anymore
She’s over forty pounds now
But when we cross the street or
A parking lot
Enter into a new place or
Whenever I can find an excuse
I hold her hand
In my own hand
When I garden and
When I wash dishes
I don’t wear gloves
Because I want to feel the dirt
Or its absence
In my own hands
Even in the coldest of weather
I don’t care for gloves
I want to feel the snow
When I make a snowball or
A snowman
I want to feel my wife’s hand
In mine
Even if it is cold outside
It is little wonder
That I’m not interested
In laying the proof down on a table or bookshelf
Not yet anyway
Right now
I just feel better
To have it here in my hands

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