you see these hands?
they are stained by tired, fallen ashes,
steeped in cold, fragile deeps
and they become rocks when I look away.
do not hesitate to reach forward
thrust a quiet word through my tight fingers
and sing me a song of the sun
the quiet twistings, blood vessels wound
keep my skin far away
from the careful little voice
which insistently reaches outward,
calling: carry me, please