Golden Hands
They called him
for everything he touched
was flooded with the sun –
his grandmother’s soup
by the grace of his hand
tasted of angels,
every game he played
he won, every race,
everywhere he swum,
he came in first, He
Who Is the Origin,
who needs to prove
nothing, He whose
long, slender fingers
glow with the Divine
and even now, they
burnish and shine
as I hold them
o my god I stroke them
in my own.