For a Season

posted on: October 10, 2008

It’s hard to find vacant hands these days.
Unimportant papers, rustling bags, and dangling keys stem from my limbs, I am sure.
My busy palms detangle hair and homework.
Clutch anticipated checks and letters alike.
Push sliding glasses back to their proper place while maneuvering a mouse in the other,
Aimlessly.

The wind chills and I cradle my own shoulders holding the shivers and sobs together,
inside.
Burnt leaves crunch underfoot and I reach to grab them swirling above my head.
I lunge and tear and lash and scrape but
They escape me.
And I watch the remnants of the changing season tornado out of reach.

But as the blur stops and I stand
Arms outreached.
Hands open.
Fingers wilted.
I wonder why the air feels so light.
Why the rain, and the leaves, and the snow don’t fill my palms.
Waiting.

It’s hard to find vacant hands these days.
Unimportant papers, rustling bags, and dangling keys stem from my limbs, I am sure.

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