Many seasons woven
through the palms of these hands.

These hands cradle
your infant body
skin on skin;
soft, like moonlight on water
or downy wings.

These hands hold
you close enough
to drink milk that grows
you out of feeted jammies
into princess shoes --
the kind that blink
when you walk.

These hands
pull you close
to kiss tiny freckles
and nestle into pigtails
that smell of campfire
and October leaves.

These hands lift
you over sharp peaks,
lead you from dead-end
streets and circular paths.

Always there, holding
and releasing
as you weave new paths
through new seasons

all yours.