REALITY?: Hands

I hold my hand out not in askance
or expectation
but to touch the life
that breathes and writhes
in licks of flame
inside
the air.

I reach up to a sky so neverending
in its blueness
that it offers up
and I do take
a handful of its space
hold it in
my palm and
let it fly
away.

My fingers shovel down into the soil
where life ends
and begins
and ends again
in silent beds of satin
or ashes spreading
winglike on the air
or drowning in
the oceans.

I place my hand upon my breast
where beating steady
a heart lies
guiding hands to brush
the sky
the earth
the sea
and feel them,
clasp them,
touch them, then
let them
be.