Like a boot takes the shape
of the foot that wears it, I imagine
my hand might come to take the shape
of yours, your hand—something
I was made to hold, made to move with,
made to let go.
February 26, 2017 by Rosemerry
Like a boot takes the shape
of the foot that wears it, I imagine
my hand might come to take the shape
of yours, your hand—something
I was made to hold, made to move with,
made to let go.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged hands, letting go, love, poem, poetry | 1 Comment
Love this one, Rosemerry.
And, oooooh, that last line, those four little words. Yowtch!