Your large hands, folded and at rest
course and weathered to suggest
the myriad ways you held us all together.
Shot through with veins like pipes
you worked with all your life
in half-formed buildings
or in a dark basement
hunched over your desk and craft,
you provided endlessly.
I was always impressed
that working man’s hands like these
could be so graceful and precise to plant seeds
to fasten tiny shades of light
to a garden of glass
where luminous flowers bloom in chandeliers
to outlast any dark or drought.
To your hands I pay homage
those hands that built the cottage
crafting a family to place inside
those unique borders and lines.
Each piece of varying shade and hue
in time will become the glue
that holds the whole pattern together,
each is necessary.
I’ve spent these last few nights
looking into the light of your lamps
and all their watery eyes.
I realized that if only there was enough glass
to contain the stain
of all the loss and pain death leaves behind,
perhaps the light coming through
could guide from within you
like glittering shards
from our collective windows
shining paths in our empty yards,
paths that will lead us through the lonesome winter
to the warmth of being together.