Cradle [Day 17]

Careful are the hands that hold yours close,
a delicate embrace, powered with the subtle sighs:
an orchestrated scene of the mother, the child, the life
that’s the fragile leaf of a withered tree,
quite far from happy, but farther from crying,

Careful are the hands that hold yours close,
a robust enthusiasm, blooming like wild flowers:
an elaborate performance of the son, the old man, the life
that’s the only strong gust from a failing winter,
quite far from new, but farther from alive-

hands that cradle you, and you cradle them
till life in death is as profound as
life itself

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