"What doesn't fear my hands;" but
a touch of fear; something we all hold.
By the crush of my thumb, I build walls;
my fingers making fences.
Among the trees, they're hard to see.
Still, I place my hands upon them—
drafted to the winds of war.
Would you feel the updraft, or only
the distance it leaves behind— my hands
having grown so busy holding the walls,
they've become lost to me.