Lotus Hands

by Sandy Fontana


I learned to run with loose hands,
thumb and first finger barely touch,

as if between them I carry salt stain
pressed from seawater drops, or distilled

memory of embrace. Late run round
the old asylum turned mental health center.

I heard greetings, one resident to another.
Then to me, I’ll pray for you, one stranger

to another. Passed the dog-walking
family, the man who looks like Clinton.

And the four Great Danes striding
their yard, the mansion’s quarter-acre

on the corner. Passed a caregiver
and resident curious about the runner

in front of me, and then me. Even at my pace,
slow-going, I’m flying low, arms nouveau

wings, fingers found feathers lifting
me off Earth for sublime seconds.

Old man walking, his hands raise
to orans pose, silent blessings,

one spirit to the other,
like saints of motion passing

without words. I learned to run with
lotus hands allowing blood’s easy flow

and energy vibrating about them,
like these people on a path crossing paths,

as if we hold worlds in our hands, or
balance between us galaxies.

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