A Possibility of Holding

Out where there are dreams of distances
and silences I dare to reach towards
your nakedness with hands that can only
do so little. I never learnt to make things

grow from wood or stone or paper. I never
knew the secrets of planting for the future
preparing to tend for the delicacy of shoots.
All I ever had were these hands,
futile gestures for forms of regret.

I never learnt the delicacy of holding
or the secret of the gentle touch.
It was always too far and I always too late.
My hands fall through empty air to only
reassure the memory of where you sat and cried.

I do not own much and dream of owning less.
I do not desire to hold the cold brick
or shaped metal of property. I only want
endless sky and the greenest of grasses.
Except when rain falls and I want to form
a shelter, build a fire and have someone to hold.