Hands

Hands clasp firm, holding tight to this world
Just a thread from the bed, to standing beside
Trying to convey hope, peace, healing, strength.
The presence of not being alone, not deserted
To testing, prodding, poking and waiting,
Waiting in hope and fear of what may come,
Good news or bad, life or death, waiting to be whole.
Hands are held in song, with stories, with tears,
With grace we cannot explain because so much
Passes in that hand held. We hold it all
Especially the presence of being there,
The connection to the divine.