the hands of time

 sometimes

when i look at

my hands

a weeping wells up

within me

a hoard of hands of

those long gone

display themselves

across the corners

of my mind

sometimes

the hoard of hands 

are mine, all mine 

from across the sands

of my own time

has the remembering 

of my mind left go of 

all the countless hours

of joy held near by all

the hands i have known

or, is it just 

that all that joy contains 

each o’ their meanings

as grains in an endless

hourglass of feeling

so much, so full,

so tenderly eternal

that all the emotions

well up as water across 

the lids of my life

 sometimes

when i look at

my hands

a weeping wells up

within me

the beauty

the glory of it all

at once

here 

and yet not here