I am terrified of my hand

sifting leaves to find my infant glove.

Lost —

one turns to God too much.

It’s near winter,

I’ve found myself concerned for birds not yet gone,

Stilled within the reach of bough

that weighs with root their airy home.

Friends have come disjointed

and I cannot wish their passion back.

My words confuse, now frantic and dim.

Words choose to dance like moths in twilight.

This fallen unanswered place makes all

too many variables.

I press myself to the ground —

my family, my loves far gone.

Would you take mouth to bless these hands

to find, regret; hands bare grow cold.

Lost, with-holding to pray,

I will not have you among these leaves.

##

by Shannon Nissa Bailey Powers

…………………………………….

Alternate version:

Luke Warm (at Tikkons)

–from scenes from The Brothers Karamozov

I am terrified of my hand

Sifting leaves to find my infant glove

Lost —

One turns to God too much

It’s near winter.

I’ve found myself concerned for birds not yet gone

Stilled within the reach of bough

That weighs with root their airy home

Friends have come disjointed

And I cannot wish their passion back

My words confuse, now harsh and dim

Words choose to dance like moths in twilight

This fallen unanswered place makes all

Too many variables

I press myself into the ground —

My family, my loves far gone

Would you take mouth to bless these hands

To find, regret; hands bare grow cold.

Lost undeserving to pray

I will not have you among these leaves.

##

by S.N.B. Powers

from P. Sweeney’s collection

————————————————————–

Alternate version:

Luke Warm (at Tikkons)

–from scenes from The Brothers Karamozov

I am terrified of my hand

Sifting leaves to find my infant glove

Lost —

One turns to God too much

It’s near winter.

I’ve found myself concerned for birds not yet gone

Stilled within the reach of bough

That weighs with root their airy home

Friends have come disjointed

And I cannot wish their passion back

My words confuse, now harsh and dim

Words choose to dance like moths in twilight

This fallen unanswered place makes all

Too many variables

I press myself into the ground —

My family, my loves far gone

Would you take mouth to bless these hands

To find, regret; hands bare grow cold.

Lost undeserving to pray

I will not have you among these leaves.

##

by S.N.B. Powers

from P. Sweeney’s collection