*~~*

Hands

Hands still and poised prepare for the moment,
Fingertips opened to the wind and eyes ready for the sun
To awake from its door of despair,
The hands are soft and still,
Waiting to bleed those words onto the page.
There is nothing to take from this place,
No words to steal from the work of this place,
For the river cannot talk, though it is possible
To find yourself in its silence.
But to find the significance in the great blue stillness,
The hands have to be ready to capture the whispers.
The cold, unbalanced, naïve fingertips must wait and stay still,
For in a moment, the wind will whisper and the river will rise,
Only to point you on your way,
Through the desperate valleys and the linguistic lofts of the earth.
It will rise only for a moment,
For there will only be seconds for you to find yourself,
Only moments and minutes and all that is in between.
So be ready, I say,
For the river will whisper its secret scent, its muster and might,
Only to a few, its prayers will only be raised on high for a split moment
In time and perhaps you will be there,
Waiting to capture its words and whisper with those still and poised hands.
Perhaps it is when you are the most lost
That you find the true image of your own still and poised hands,
Perhaps those hands are the passage to your dreams,
To all that you desire.
But for now, you will find yourself in the struggle
And in the moments when the river rises to meet you,
When you get lost again and again,
Only to be there to write of the whispers you hear
And the silence it speaks.
Only few will ever write of what I feel,
Only few will ever speak of its haunt,
Though these hands are still and poised and ready for the moment,
When the blue expanse will open its vast and lonely mouth,
To whisper for a few travelers,
Its only audience,
And lead them on their way through the silence.