Hands reach for mine,
Tiny baby hands that want comfort and solace,
Warm and full of life,
And connected to chests that giggle
In pleasure when I reach back.

Hands reach for mine,
Medium sized hands that want companionship,
Fast hands that have almost outgrown Mom’s reach,
And don’t hold on too long lest they
Be seen to still need me.

Hands reach for mine,
Adult sized hands that want understanding,
But barely brush my fingertips,
And these hands are moving on in life
In search of being all grown up.

One hand reaches for mine,
An old, gnarled and ugly hand
Slow and unsteady and painful.
This is the hand that comforted me.
This is the hand I never outgrew.
This is the hand of Love.