There are times, too many to number
when I have wrung my hands in the hope
of finding myself in the motion of skin
over skin and the feel of me. This is
a period of reflection, a small moment
of paralyzed thought, where a picture
of the past will pound upon my mind...

too much for me to contain, bringing
motion to my hands. The nervous touching
of self for reassurance, for warmth,
and that bond with the inner spirit
that can only be felt with security,
when the connection of all the parts
is made strong from deep within.

Yet..a nervous twitching motion
that sometimes unsettles the space
around me, to the point of isolation with
barrier of vulnerability neatly in place.
And I have to wonder does this make me
not only old, but eccentric too.

WhiteRose 10/30/02