but only your hands,
your hands that are too small
The morning after rain, measure your fingers
against the sidewalk earthworms. Be kind;
this is not a contest.
Find the storm-drain kitten with matted fur
and meet her wild eyes: she is
so stubbornly alive—
Stop wearing sunscreen. Instead,
learn to braid the rainclouds into your hair
and let them dangle down your back.
your voice is never loud enough,
your dreaming never strong enough,
your shivering too small
Brush and bring the cold kitten home,
while the sunset smiles and burns up the horizon;
then, though the neighborhood peregrines arrive
with eyes big enough to stargaze in,
do not let them in. When you are ready,
they will disappear forever.
And the gilt-clawed wolves in your dreams,
listen to what they tell you,
what they sing beneath the clear light
of the moon:
it is not what is given,
but only your hands—
your lovely, lonely, empty hands,
your hands that are too small.