Poem
The Shadow Hand
Dusk's vague light settles their faces
as they lean toward the river. You see them
at the bridge's edge, searching the water.
They want secrets. They want answers.
Some wander off, shoulders heavy, eyes angled to their feet.
You lean with those who lean, wander among the shades.
Grey fingers stretch across the sky—a shadow hand.
How can you ever touch that god, that heaven?
You wander closer to the river, lean closer, listen.
You think you hear her say:
You are that god. Without you, there is no river, no sky,
no shadow hand or distant buildings or points of light.
You are the universe come to know itself,
to know this wandering, this leaning, the lovers' garden,
wind, bird feathers, dry beautiful roses.
You are wandering in Paradise.
Marcia Nehemiah