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You wrap your hands
around me like silver ribbons, touch my skin with fingertips
cool as liquid drops.
You make music with those same hands
drawing jazz melodies like magic from the air.
You have long-ago
builder’s hands, capable, once strong – once artist’s hands
creating pots from clay.
Now they are arthritic, knotty, but you finger my cheek,
and they’re soft as magnolia petals and as beautiful.