Before you were born I tried to imagine your hands–
Wee fingers wrapped around mine.
Tried to imagine your face. But what mind
Could contain the wholeness of your person?
Ancient kingdoms, foreign lands
Were easier to fathom.

Who could imagine the perfect anemone unfolding
Grasp how impossibly small!?
How could such little fingers contain bones at all?
Fearfully and wonderfully
made with such small nails like petals?

What has been handed on to me
What shall I hand on to you
little one whose whole body fits now between my hands.

Your hand holding mine as you gulped milk,
as you stood on my lap, as you took your first steps.
Your hands pouring me imaginary tea, wrapping silk
scarves around your head and neck.

Hands suddenly big clasped around a paintbrush making
perfect miniature worlds of color on paper
or grasping binoculars or picking up my aching foot
to roll it between your nimble fingers
making the pain vanish.

Your fingers tapping out words, rhymes,
making worlds like mine do, dancing the dance of
letters and spaces. Making infinite spaces stretch
between your fair hands.


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