She was the first child born with hands that had to be baled, roped up with 100-count thread in cables of poly braided especially for tender skin.  For her hands were as tender as they were gigantic, and much marveled upon by seers, shamans, doctors of the holistic variety, raccoons, the occasional fawn, who in their distraction over such a being with fingers, large as small dolphins, lost footing and banged into trees – events distressing to mother does – but offspring will be diverted by what offspring will see, no matter how parents try to protect young from harm.  But the hands were not the harm, did not cause the harm, the knots on the heads of the fawn.  And the knots on the heads of fawns healed, which left them the wiser about leaps without looking.  And as the child grew her hands grew apace.  And as the hands grew, she could grasp more.  She took to rolling planets like marbles around the systems of suns.  She put plugs in black holes and then took them out, happy to rescue star debris with any chance of recycled worth.  She was enchanting, an enchantment.
   But all things in their good order.  By the month she taught her feet how to take one step at a time through the sky, her hands had learned how to hold whole worlds of things, things abstract, things concrete as a peach.  She became so adept she could juggle hope in the atmospheres of several galaxies at once, never dropping a wish or a wobbly desire.  Whatever presented itself on a trillion horizons, she sampled as easily as filching red grapes from the green grocer bins at the market. 
   Her parents, siblings, friends were, and are, inordinately proud.
   But the loneliness of spaceplay wore thin by the time she was eight.  Her hands began to shrink, her fingers, less like dolphins now, likewise grew smaller until all that had been uncommonly uncommon about her seemed very common indeed.  Of course, seemed is the key word in this tale of the big-handed girl.   
   Black holes know her name, those hands, and fear her.  Black holes in space know what she can save.

Read and enjoyed Lynn. Short on time right now, but will be back.

B.

Now my heart is the one that is warm. I'm crying myself to sleep - in a very good way.

the occasional fawn, who in their distraction over such a being with fingers, large as small dolphins, lost footing and banged into trees – events distressing to mother does – but offspring will be diverted by what offspring will see, no matter how parents try to protect young from harm.


Something in the wording of this made me go back and re-read, re-read, two or three times to get at, what I think, is something very important to the whole. I may be wrong, but I'm reading it that these few lines contain much and mis-reading here affects the read of the whole. Maybe I'm misreading. Maybe I'm way off . . .

Anyway, gosh, Lynn, I hope these recent offereings are the start of a collection. This one is so layered and I can't explain this very well but, often we use the word "layered" when describing, reviewing art, literature and often I am confused about where those layers might be: in the loam beneath the poem/page/canvas/screen . . . or somewhere in the ethereal space above . . . I've probably lost you by now, but what I'm what I'm trying to say is, this piece in particular makes me want to dig and unearth you, or something, and at the same time reach into those black holes and ....

OK, that's me. Would you prefer I just said Nice work and posted a :) ?

B.

Thanks, B.
Glad something seems to be lurking within the lines . . . these fable-like ditties are meant to have something sort of waiting to sprout and take hold under the piles of deciduous words.  Hey.  I like that: deciduous words.  They come and go, come and go, sometimes raked into a pile to burn, sometimes added to the compost bin. 
This one is to fill a request.
See Thursday's Big Feet for seed.
Grateful for your comments, happy face and all. 

And Lavonne -- When I clicked on the picture last night -- you got me again, girlfriend.  Thank you for that hand, that "friend" -- you.

me