The cold complacent hand
like a stubborn leaf hanging on an oak branch in the fall
fears the stillness within its veins.
And sways in the winds of the unkown.
Other hands pass by
like sycamore leaves that blow beneath the oak tree
and momentarily make their grave
in ice puddles in the knots of the oak tree’s roots.
But none caress my hand.
My hand and the leaf hang alone.