In quiet reflection.

I would like most to remember
his hands - palm pressed to calm cheekbone
a cool touch, collected
and capable of anything.
I have seen these hands
prayer-stitched and penitent
folded neatly into one another.
They have been both church and steeple - prayer and pulpit.
They have known the weight of praise, and the long, dim light of nights spent
poised in still reflection.
I have seen these hands at peace,
a symphony of purpose - harmonic
and charged with their own music -
a metronome precision of movement,
no note wasted.
I have seen them, also - uncertain
constant as clockwork
twitching and shifting agitation,
vortex of steady, endless ticking...
Fondling smoking casualties
casually, lit with fixed attention;
flicking ash into air
into cup
into upturned palms -
lighting one off the knuckle of the other,
smothering the unsteadiness of time
in the constancy of ritual.
And also,
his tentative grip - slow and timid
shufflestitch of fingers,
seeking shelter between my own.
Still, I would like most to remember this -
calm palm pressed to cheekbone.
His cool touch, collected
and capable of anything.
July 31st, 2018