Upon going through some old writings, I happened to find a poem I wrote long ago for a friend. I am still rather fond of it, so I post it here now to share with you.
Shaking are the hands that write-
The ones that
With their nimble fingers
Paint words like petals on paper.
These hands spill forth what has happened.
They spin together the tales,
The thin strings of language
Twined together like the branches of trees.
With constant movement
These shaking hands
Search for a way to rid themselves of what they have been through—
The other hand that has held them,
The hair they have brushed through
Or pulled out…
They write, these hands
They write, pouring out a shaking beauty;
Words and phrases and poems
Locked together in columns of black and white.
They write, and write, and write
When the columns have become pillars,
When there has been enough written
To create a fortress of words,
These hands will no longer shake.