My Mama once told me,
many and many a year ago,
be careful of the friends you make
for all people have sticky fingers
And when they touch you
they steal you as you take of them
and tiny threads will bind you
for all people have sticky fingers
I spent hours alone that day, perched on a rock
in the golden fields behind the farmhouse
rubbing my hands
absently
thoughtfully
in the grass
I stared beyond the clouds and imagined
all those who I have touched
and those who have
time and again
touched me
Touching is connection
and we are drawn to each other
by invisible infinitesimal threads
for all people have sticky fingers
To touch is to be touched,
taking part of others with you,
and we are never truly alone
for all people have sticky fingers
As a child I would sit and dream
imagining all of the silvery threads
extending from my fingers
to the multitudes bound by
these tender hands
And now here I sit again
older certainly,
wiser... perhaps,
reveling in the ravel
of the web woven
by my fingers
and yours
My Mama once told me,
many and many a year ago,
be careful of the friends you make
for all people have sticky fingers
This is for you, my friends
Comments
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this was truly amazing. i love the way this piece paints a picture in my mind. The word delicate comes to mind when i read this. i am new to AP and look foward to hearing more of your work.
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this is so original. i really like the almost childish yet so mature comparison of sticky hands to the way people touch eachother. very good.
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Great work
This is a very well crafted write. I like the imagery I have found woven within the words. I like this poem for the thougts it evokes as well....very well done.
LIZ
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