What do you hold in your hands?
it is a surface for whispers
like the clean wind of winter:
solitude colored with ice and air
or a field of view so quiet
it clots the tainted thought
in miniature pristine patters;
open your hands to the sun:
if you hold nothing,
think of the past, the impressions
still creased in your palm,
here the ground has sunken
where life has taken its time.
where rain dwells and inspires,
something pushes through the brown:
living in hopes of the sun
to stand in the warmth of golden rays,
the heat coincides with its insides.
what do you hold in your hands?
the better of time asks who
and the human asks how
but in your palm, your insides,
tinkers the Undefined