A Poem: Your Hands

Your hands meet mine
lifted up in praise, or supplication
or curled in my lap.

Loose and open in the peace
of surrender,
or tight with tension,

and my earnest grip
to whatever it is
I am holding.

Yes, your hands meet mine,
whether they are
held to my chest in prayer to you,

or to hold a hurt
from spilling
from the heart.

Yes, your hands
they hold mine.
Wrap around.

Open the fingers.
Pressed against my flesh,
palm on palm.

And they encourage
with a small handshake
of absolution.

And when I’m ready,
when I’m ready to loosen
and grasp in return,

they always bid me on
with a little tug,
to indicate the way.

Yes, your hands
never leave mine.
Lifted up in praise or supplication.

Or curled still,
at peace and open,
grateful in my lap.

Ana Lisa de Jong
May 2018

Photo:  Vaughan Park Anglican Retreat Centre, Long Bay, Auckland, New Zealand

 

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