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