I Hold Out My Hand

What would happen if I held out my hand?
Would it whither in the wind—
a flower not at home in arctic air?
Would it rise on its bent pole and wave
like a banner greeting strangers?
Or would its fingers bend,
roll under the thumb and launch a fist?

Alone could be more.
My hands could sing in sign
and preach a new gospel to the deaf air
or brush the cold from boulders
and let the sun melt their stone
or stroke the fur of spruce boughs
and learn to be a tree’s companion.

But if you, friend
came crunching down the driveway
bitter from bitter air
and saw me bundled in dreams
would you join me?
Or would you hesitate in drifts of solitude
and turn away with a wave?

I hold out my hand
suspended for your hopeful, fingered answer.


—Eric Nelson