My daughter places her hand in my palm,
Singing a song with no words,
Folding my fingers around hers.
On this fine spring day of green and yellow,
With a breeze that does not remind me of the desert,
I watch her measure her short hand against mine.
She will hold the things that I have held in those hands—
A guitar, a rifle, a friend, a lover—or not.
These are my memories, the relics of choices long past.
Perhaps one day she will measure herself
Against an old photo, the one where I hold a rifle
On a day in the desert, with a breeze that scorches memory.
My daughter places her hand in my palm,
On this fine spring day of green and yellow—
I fold my memories away, and hold her hand in mine.
