You mold me like plaster
in the tight grip of your
chiseled hands

from working out in fields,
fixing all those cars
and every song you've ever played
has made those hands

driving yourself to hell knows where
taking a buzzer to your hair
and all the shots, drugs cut and rolled
have engraved those hands

and now,
here sits she
he thinks she's an angel
her eyes like the sea
voice like a dove
in which she craves
he's learned to love

he picks her up slowly
holds her warm and safe
until springtime slowly makes her way
her heart, a delicate beat
softly saying

I am privileged to be held by such hands.