In this kitchenette, so often occupied the last few years
here we find ourselves again. Drinking coffee, too hot,
powdered creamer, no sweetener. Small talk looms
large; big hugs get harder to come by. Anxiety screams
at me to “help”, offset the unwelcome-ness that
be all in my head.
Try sitting instead; reaching for your silence
across blue laminate round.
Sipping at scalding funeral coffee
and all I want to look at, is your hands
their grace, even in the fidget
dark veins trailing up beyond
white cuffs. I love their bearing
warmth from cup to mine.
Those hands, deliverer of so much more than that:
farrier-gentle forge and crucible.
Such generous shapers of future;
of life and light.