Chair of Hands

It's Christmastime and
it seems old friends are strangers,
none stranger than me, as though
I slipped and fell into the wrong life
But then I remember it's just the difference
between what we wanted and what we got,
who we might be and all we can say,
the bumping and bruising of tender places
that keeps me hiding and speechless
in this raw flood of love

Cracked and bleeding tough old skin,
it's all I can show
as inside I twist and ripen,
but you ask no more,
you balm and soothe so freely
Chair of hands, roofs of palm
Demanders of loyalty, hurt, hurtful,
you are the knee
upon which I break my bread,
my people

As the grey begins to pale
on this first of longer days,
a massive swirl of birds
narrows, widens, funnels
to a wisp and drops
behind a hill, to a hidden beach

Soon they rise