hands upon my hearts

Hyacinth garden

my own hands, sinuous calloused hands

in their bones, the hands of some weary worker

praying hands that dream back

the poet’s hands skilled at carving images

I knelt for as long as I could on the edge paradise

I felt storms that I could not keep score of in my seasons

hands of the millstone heart, and ruins of cold stone chimneys

with one finger on consciousness, in spirit gripped

and one finger selecting fantasy rising in the air

there were the hands of dreamy rainbow ancestries

and misty hands of pearls gathering rain from the sea

my broad hands and my broken hearts beneath darkened skies

unmistakable curtains of tears shattered by thunder

then the ears of my heart sufficiently hear the temporal blossoms of dogwood

while the eyes of my heart change color in the skies to sunshine

my tender heart arcs in pulsing passion deep within

my heart transformed my other hand like a virtue

virtue I did not own but still

my resting heart is unassuming

with calmness in and of this one heart

my heart newly descended from stars

an altar and bonded vessel

where my own hands are upon all my hearts

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