Her Hands

I’d kiss her hands, so soft, warm and nimble,
that stroke and bend the strings so easily,
that make those sounds that fill the sleepless night
with it’s only sense of peace.
Those hands, small, thin and perfect,
those hands that will never touch me
yet reach out form the radio, from the distance,
to call up the songs of the dead.
If I could hold one of her hands in mine,
caress them softly with my own fingertips,
and lavish them with affection and worship
to show my gratitude, my thankfulness.
From a far off place, New York or Chicago,
she plays her music upon a stage.
The radio calls it out into the night.
Those hands play, giving me my only peace.

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