Ruthie's Hands

I love your hands, Ruthie, those finely crafted bones, your alabaster skin and all the squiggly lines, can't read them though but know about the zones, small twigs connected tightly to forever vines. Remember, at the Fair, she read your hand? Predicted things that made us really smile? She said I'd find myself stuck in a distant land and settle in to stay for quite awhile. The wisdom did come back, and hands reached out. Re-union for a thousand million molecules, remember Popper and his milk vat with the trout, a clever fellow though not taught in common schools. It could not be, they said while flashing a mean tongue, this is society and order is for all. A few were hoping that the two of us be hung, they'd stand and watch to see us rotten apples fall. You gave a wave to them, dismissing all critique, and then you traced the lines to find the warmest spot, which, as you know, is pretty hairy and unique, home to a hardware that -when touched- gets pretty hot. Your hands are sentinels, perhaps I'll call them scouts. Or digital explorers, blessed with grace. I've never seen such joie de vivre in any Kraut nor that sly smile in your adorable sweet face. These words just came, I had intended to compose a work of art to let you know just how I feel. So I was thinking of including a red rose and things of beauty that might please you and appeal. But then I realised that all this has been said a million times by countless lovers over time. And that the thoughts inside my (truly smitten) head would be clichés, just humming songs and dressed in rhyme. So I regret, my love, the ones who've gone before the likes of Lohengrin and he who understands, there is no human who could ever love you more (and I adore it when you do that with your hands) .