From the beginning
your hands moved with the instinct
of the second born son,
first banging on me from the inside,
so I wouldn't forget you were coming.
Then reaching out in welcome,
like happy baseball mitts, clapping.
Or balled up into fists,
pushing hard against me,
on sleeping right beside me.
Your hands took no prisoners,
even in peekaboo,
but always pointed just in time
to the full blue pools of your eyes,
or the perfect curve of your dimples--
And they felt so right
resting in mine,
but too often I had to drag them from behind--
the plight of the second child:
never enough sleep,
never enough time.
But now your grown hands strum your guitar,
and I can't remember the last time
your hands reached
But I want you to know
that you have always had me
head over heels,
out of my mind
will always miss yours