These Little Hands have carried too much.
They have waited for life,
but are waited by death.
They have held what is broken,
been dragged along by unfamiliarity.

For these Little Hands are the seeds of a nation;
whose palms will one day grow into towering trees,
to mighty forests.

One Little Hand reaches out,
but grasps
Nothing.
Then two Little Hands fold into each other,
searching for one reflexive comfort.

But finds
Nothing

but the spaces of confusion between each damp
and ***** finger.