Eric Cockrell

the hand that loves,
is weathered and calloused.
long gifted, now trembles,
but just a little.
wipes tears and fights injustice,
buttons the collar of respect.
takes down your hair,
like rain falling on leaves.
bandages the dog's paw,
lights the fire late at night.
turns the pages of the book,
strokes the inside of your neck.
unleashes volcanoes,
opens the door of the cage.
and sprinkles dirt on the graves,
of those that came before...
softly puts down the pen,
and puts out the candle.
for it belongs to the wind,
to the stars, and your heart!