Daniel Rosso
From My Hands, In My Hands
Red slivers of wood
stuck out from my hands
and I learned never to
touch the sun in the deck
with the luke warm breeze
running through an open tap,
the sweat from my palms
glistened like two pools of ice
left laying in summerland fields
melting into blood, dripping
into the brown dirt dried
in my hands.
I winced at the sight
of my childhood reflection fade
and I was caught staring
at the blooming flower growing
from in my hands.