Poem 1

The hand she holds is sweaty


The hand she holds is sweaty.
As is the one in mine.
She slips a little.
My grip tightens.


"Are you ready?"
"Count from nine."
So the time she begins to whittle.
My countenance tightens.


The hand is no longer steady.
My courage no longer divine.
She slips a little.
My heart tightens.


~Jay Randolph~