Monday, June 18, 2012

tracing


Lightly,
my fingertips trace
along rough grain.
Aged wood
of a centuries old tree
passes slowly underneath my hands
like braille for the blind.

Barely touching the timber,
I feel along grooves
and over knots,
searching
for a place
that my weak hands
might cling
to the crudely-formed cross.

I must be careful,
for the wood's not been sanded.
I must find a place
that does not threaten
to scrape or splinter
my delicate hands,
though
I long
so deeply
to cling to it
with all of my strength.

I trace the tree
and wonder
what might happen
if my fingers
and palms
formed
white-knuckled fists
and I was brave enough
to hold on
tight.