Mine, The Only Hands

Lying in bed this morning, I switched on Concert FM and heard an exquisite sonata by Telemann. Viola da gamba and harpsichord. I cannot say it enticed me to linger between the sheets any longer than usual but it certainly made an occasion of it.

Now, looking out the window as day fades, I am delighted by the small white daisies and yellow buttercups adorning the lawn. The vision amounts to one of those simple pleasures by which an ordinary life is punctuated. A sign of hope juxtaposed against every reason not to hold one's breath in anticipation of change. Signs and pleasures which can all too easily escape notice.

Mine are the only
Hands.

The feel
Of dear skin
Fades.

April/2001

Slowly, life returns to normal. Whatever that means. I am no longer convinced that such a thing even exists. Was I ever?