Final Product

Remember her; how she
Eased from the rambler's threshold,
Her arms knowing how to speak,
Like vines proclaiming "Hello."
Effortlessly. Her hands
you noticed. The creases.
Paths of a unique map.
To guide you.
Or to be perfect.

And, later, when her last
Breath spread out among the tubes,
Her body discovering how to die,
Like rock learning to swim.
Suddenly. Her hands
You noticed. The patterns.
Rhythms of a distant song.
To soothe you.
Or to be perfect.

Lying there, at the end,
Heavy with unfinished love,
No superstitious gift of eternal mystery
Outweighed her resting hands. You noticed.
In their cracks are the journeys.
In their folds are the sounds.
They will always be perfect.
[And unfinished from here.]