- Lorraine Johnson
 Little Hands
Under the shade of a willing tree
there he sits, young but seeing
working the palms with his little hands,
as his culture unfolds a life before him.
Watching, like a mantra, humming,
faintly, unknowingly through his third eye,
his journey will slowly blossom,
as his young, determined soul
tries to hang on to innocence and beauty,
as he moves—facing kindness and cruelty,
knowns and unknowns—
in the wild paradox of this world.
And in the quiet of aging,
with white hair or none, and brittling bones,
and the sparkle of knowing eyes,
and arms outstretched,
his little hands will appear again
and he will see, and hum, and blossom
—toward an unknown beauty
and the fullness of new innocence,
under the shade of a pulling light.
We all start—and end,
with little hands.