A Woman’s Touch


In Her Two Hands

cradled in her hands

In still times like these
when I come to you,
all my desire exposed,
you take this blistered heart
and lift it up to the sun for more.
You clothe it in soft crimson robes
to return it to it’s true colour
and rock it gently with your song.
In still times like these
when memories are burned
by bright lights and sharp eyes,
you strip those past days to the studs
and sit back to watch the reconstruction.
Months and men and mysteries
are rebuilt board by board,
and so the journey goes.
In still times like these
when I come to you,
solid fears catching in my throat,
you tell me I’m a healer
and wrap me in tender mercy,
then send my two hands out
to find broken bones and dreams
that need a woman’s touch.

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This entry was posted in Agony and Ecstacy, Eternal Optismism, Friendship, Life, Nature, Poetry, Relationships and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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