I would know those small hands anywhere.
The way the round thumb touches the short fingers
or only one of them, but all at the same time.
I know the clothes you wear
on occasions such as these
and how they must enable you to boldly turn your back on the world
to face the rest of us.
I know the way you turn so that
your eyes see our eyes
or only one person's, but all at the same time.
I have studied your face,
watched the movement of its lines
over the course of years.
I know how to anticipate your every move
in this dance we love to do.
It's our dance, but
perhaps lovers understand.
Or poets, perhaps.
Don't ask the puppeteer; We give our consent.
Ask the good Lord. Maybe He knows best
this dance
where your hands do this
(and I do that)
and swirl the air around them
swell the sound of soul-dance till it fills every crevice.
I look into your eyes
and together we
stir up the Spirit's dance
inside your hands
and behind our eyes.
Such small hands
grasping at souls until
there are no spectators.
I would know those small hands anywhere.
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