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Moments in time:
your hand in mine.
Small and bony, fingers lengthy –
although mine was greater, yours was so sturdy.
Not a second in life the place it didn’t belong.
Moments in time:
your hand in mine.
From a little bit woman searching for your brown eyes up there
to the sobs in your lap as you stroked my moist hair.
Some recollections frantic, some blissfully lazy.
Our palms keep in focus, whereas the remainder turns into hazy.
Moments in time:
your hand in mine.
Our fingers laced and so completely spaced.
That feeling – nonetheless in me – years haven’t erased.
The way you handed me, every time, only a wisp of your grace.
Moments in time:
your hand in mine.
We gripped firmly when life introduced us causes to grieve,
as we did once we laughed until we virtually peed.
And the final time, as your soul was let out,
with my head in your chest
when you took your final breath
and my aching hand pleaded for one remaining squeeze.
Moments in time:
their palms now in mine.
Little ones that slide oh so gently in place.
Tiny fingers that match, however can by no means change.
They don’t even know the way rapidly they’ll develop,
and how briskly it may go –
however I do, so I gradual
myself down.
I breathe as I tighten my grip.
This valuable section is a passing ship.
I really feel their gentle pores and skin.
I let their gentle in,
the place it mingles with yours,
nonetheless alive in my pores.
And I really feel your deep magnificence infusing their cores.
Moments in time:
your hand in mine.
How I want,
how I yearn,
how I thirst,
how I pine
for a little bit black button
labeled, merely,
REWIND.
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