What the Hand Knew

A poem on touch, recognition, and the body’s quiet fidelity.

We were not speaking.

The room had gone blue
with Saturday evening,
the film moving softly
through its borrowed weather.

You were beside me,
ordinary, beloved,
unaware of being
the centre of the world.

And my hand,
older than thought,
went quietly
to your leg.

Not hunger.
Not asking.

Only the body
recognising home.

Only the hand
finding the warm fact of you
before the mind
could come near it.

A palm rests.
A breath continues.
The light changes
on a wall.

And the whole life
leans there—

toward you,

as the sleeping earth
keeps faith
with the root.