Wee little hands that are squeezing my face,
Make my heart feel strangely warm,
And in that soft, chubby childlike embrace,
There's no intention to harm.
Wee little hands reaching out for a hug,
Wanting relief from distress,
After a fall on the living room rug,
Close to your bosom they press.
Wee little hands feeling fragile and small,
Wearing a bruise or a scar,
Picked up when brushing a nail in the hall,
Show just how needed we are.
Wee little hands buried deep in a bowl,
Covered with noodles and cheese,
Unfettered by care, absorbed in the whole,
Testing each bite with a squeeze.
Wee little hands all too soon will grow old,
Soon may lose life's fleeting breath,
O let us love them before they lay cold,
In the unchanging stillness of death.
C R Lord © 2007
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