Colored with his Love

Sometimes the sun
pulls some kind of magic from the sky
and I can feel it nudge my skin
in a reverent way,
as if someone conspired
to let me see more clearly
how the water emits radiance
and sounds are sharply cut
from a song of continuance.

Today I saw this magic
in something far more finite,
something as fragile as a flower
and as strong as a caress,
I saw it in hands, dear hands,
beloved and torn on one delicate thumb,
hands that had traced the years
around the heart of my nurturing
and had felt the callus of life
tear into my skin with time.

Hands that desire the earth
and touch it like a woman,
hands that are strong enough
to crush the bones of rocks,
hands that hear beauty knock
and build it in the doorway
while I wait with who’s there
not yet spoken.

I could see so clearly
how for-granted colored the knuckles
and I felt great tenderness for nail ridge’s curl
and the slightly pink flesh
that fell into the heartland
of his palm.

I hold them now
cupped giants between my own
opened  I kiss the inside of my heart
for as I look with this clarity
I see it there as sure as a blink
and it is colored with his love.