Easily traced, a handprint
refreshes your face. Bigger
than your hand or mine, it pinks
your expression, frames your gaze,
overlaps your sturdy cheekbones,
exaggerates your little nose,
enlivens you like a clown.

Did you sleep against the arm
of your secret playmate? Maybe
you dreamt up a lover huge
as a lineman, and his kisses
muscled over you like weather.
Don’t worry: in a few moments
the slight inflammation will fade.

Autumn flexes and flutters,
steeples prong the solid blue,
and tourists chat in graveyards
while slurping coffee from white
plastic cups or photographing
the oldest and bravest headstones
with their death heads and cherubs.

Although almost gone, the handprint
still illuminates enough
to warm us well into winter
despite so much sadness filtered
through the creamy breeze that even
kayaks punctuating the lake
trigger a lump in the throat.

That vivid handprint demonstrates
that benevolent forces
from above still prowl the earth
when no one’s awake: imprinting
a blush of color to enrich us,
and with that same loving touch
mussing trees until they laugh.

## #

William Doreski’s most recent book of poetry is The Suburbs of Atlantis (2013). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals. http://williamdoreski.blogspot.com

Photo credit: Stefan Schweihofer