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.

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