They could be statues,
marble or stone.
Outstretched—
ravaged.
The very thought of a gesture
draws me in
(and away).
Sunlit at times,
they are etched with time.
Grasping, in labor,
a child born into them.
In the dark, they are loving,
soft, and waiting
to be moved.
I recognize them
as if we have touched.
Still, to be closer.
To hold
an image.
