Take my hand. First, tie your shoelaces.
Inhale all that can be. Fill your capacious lungs
with the breath of every promise. Each is yours.
Geraniums wild in flamenco ruffle, teased into
some mysterious preen,
pastel chins high, arrogantly Andalusian,
mesmerized by the collective hum of
my workaholic bees,
hysterical planters of the sun. They are mine
and dance for me.
In all the spaces that are empty, know
that it is you who stand inchoate.
You are my filler of spaces.

His hoary hands hang like fish.
Unexpressed, they fall from his wrists
like lake pike caught and up strung
with lidless staring eyes aft hung.

Unaware with his lifeless extremities, of
the shook light bursting by degrees of
epidermal hemorrhage of bright and shine
squinting through pores and life lines;   

A miasmal kaleidoscope of forgotten tales;
of hands healing and soothing others’ travails;
of Christ’s use of John’s hands to bless God’s folk;
raised a thousand times to lighten their yoke.

His hands, swollen with years and a bit stiff with age,
still remember the bishop’s chrism which bathed
palms and a young man’s inchoate dreams of
open hands for all the gain his Lord might deem.

Passion Contents