We Have Not The Hands | 2.21.21

This place, this fragile singing place. This life, this haunted, humming, exquisitely aching life. We’re not built properly to cradle this like some infant thing, these hands too rough, this patience too thin. Try, always we try, but there’s fragility to the beating heart of our world, there’s glasslike thinness to the life we live. A moment, it begins, fumbling hands for found love, a moment later, it ends, wrinkled palms to the sky. From softness to calloused, we are lost in the transformation, wondering all the while if we were ever gentle enough to hold this whisper, this promise.

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