reading the water of my hand

i walk beside this river

it flows like

the lines in the palm of my hand

somewhere

in its beginning

is a distant spring

itself born

from rain

that fell in thin silver lines 

from sky to mouth
to skin

and in these quivering

tensile lines

that arc and braid

across these hands      

that have known so very much

in this palm

that flows so much like

this river

are little pictures

of me

flowing

and turning upstream

swimming against the current

holding

other currents

hiding behind rocks

tumbling over ledges

returning to the sky

to fall as rain

into the cupped palms

of you 

and then so unexpectedly
and gently
drawn

to the mouth 

of your soul