By Your Hands Poem by James McLain

When your hands begin to dance.
You look up as I stare at the sky they make me jump.
Sighing to my self as stars float by, yours are the ones.
I love, what of you in me from whence it comes,
do I have to choose which one while flying?
Coming from your hands,
and from my lips words which you planned knowing stopped.
Stopped so suddenly, I know your why I have known of those,
and why one time so long ago the other way.
Me it was they touched, those hands those hands.
When before a certain song the way you sing, the way you move,
when doing all the work.
Copious in my amounts, my very life you seem to take.
Which you have moved your hands up,
and down the tree, seeking shade along my street?
It flies off from the tip your hands their smoothness,
and by the time when it your will it comes, in from the sea and the smoke has finally cleared, and putting over the box spring,
as for your hands on me of my tender box,
my eyes begin to fail.
I was once before you came as soft as clay,
and like the red wings of a flock of swans that swim in tighter circles hang their heads down if sleep is at the end of flight.