If My Heart Were Hands

If my heart were hands
then my hands were fists
when I met you
raised in self-defense at possible enemies
closed against the winter cold.
But you opened them
one finger at a time.
Like flower buds waiting
for an adequate sun
in these bony blossoms
you found color
as you unfurled them
finger by finger
taking their petals in your hands
rubbing their fragrance
gently into the air.


—Eric Nelson