Poem By Alc Harris
My hand, it cannot lie,
Its grip driven by the soul.
It does not fumble,
But moves with grace.
Follows the contours of your face.
Put yourself inside my palm,
Feel the warmth
Of pillowed sleep.
When the darkness does advance,
Hold it Holy.. hold it and dance.
Let my hand plant the flowers
In your window box
On a paper house, that my hand will fold
A symbol of my love that grows,
A hand held steady, a hand you know.