These thumbs, they live to knead
your aching back, to draw
the muscles in your shoulders round
to smooth the knots and worries,
tension drawn, across that pool
of pain above your heart.
These hands would run like spiders
over silk, slim fingers
run the groove between your ribs;
and when you rise, amazed
oh you will find, the spring of youth
is borne within your stride.
These fingers, how they long to
free your mind of weary thoughts,
the journey to the bridge;
and surely they will ease
the weight of time, this gift of touch
they bring transcends divine.
March 4, 2009
For Christopher, in response to his poem-comment The Shoes You Threw Up There.