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In Her Hands

She made us with clay

washed down the mountains

over crests of joy

and chasms of deep sorrow

Our skin tinged with her blood

and the gold of her hands

some smudged with snow

others drenched in midnight


Of course you long

for the touch of her hand

on your face

Who would not want to nestle

into the warm cup of her palm

I know you are afraid

but see how our hands, like hers

hold us all

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