When I miss you,my heart into.
-drawing designs for a higher view.
-reconstructing tools into instruments.
-cuddling cat fur.
-morphing into tighter spots.
-compressing into vicelike strength.
-spreading a pyramid of support.-pressing flesh with delicate fasciculations.
-articulating to tap, trace, scrape, slide or ruffle.
This poem is generated from a trip to Philadelphia, and the Rodin museum. Before I spent 4 days studying hand surgery and rehabilitation, I spent 1 1/2 hours circling the bronze figures of hands, feet, nudes and faces at The Rodin Museum.
This is what I miss.....
the inter lacing....i like all the nuances you bring out of what those hands mean...i miss looks, touches, just being with
ReplyDeleteRodin was a great sculptor to be sure. I don't miss anything about someone who is still alive and has decided or I have decided to move away from them. sounds hard but it is easier than pining and longing.
ReplyDeletei'm afraid i'm realizing it's quite ego-based, what i miss. i'll be very dry and honest, i miss hands laying to me and granting me definition. somehow what touches me from without tells me of my perimeters of self, identifies me in a way. and the witnessing by sharing, yes, it does go both ways, but i am beginning to wonder of love its selfish elements. i wonder if this is just me?
ReplyDeleteyour poem oscillates from condensed tiger spot to kitten fur. love never stays still. it works us. wonderful.
rodin explored the full range of expression through hands, didn't he? wonderful.
xo
erin