MY OPEN HAND

 

My extended open hand is turned

Palm up

Fingers slightly curled

Silent and still

 

No shadow

Real or imagined

Darkens my palm

No currency or value

 

Is clutched in my fingers

Only a heart

Cooled by a north breeze

Rests in my hand

 

Fingertips welcome the cold

My palm catches occasional flakes of pure white snow

My heart and hand stand

Silent, still, empty and yet full

 

Full and filled

 By a crystalline river

Flowing through the rocks, eddies and ice

Of my being

 

Then running hot and hard through my heart

Roaring out to you

Before slowly returning

To my open hand