The Pillar Hand

–by Amanita Sen

–Reading Time – 1 min Approx

Some days are a little too dark

inside the cave I walk, in my island.

 

When this pitch-dark feels scary

I reach out for the hand, I need to hold.

 

I hold it now, like I would, a pillar;

my palm touching its outer skin.

 

The hand knows too well how not to

smother mine to a dizzying comfort

 

but only to let mine touch it, for strength,

which I draw from it just as much as I need,

 

to not falter in making through the darkness.

How well the hand knows the thin dividing line

 

between steering my hand its way willfully,

and just-being-there in case my hand looks for it.

 

One passing thought crosses my mind though,

if my hand learns to grope out of the cave

 

on its own, not having stumbled  even once

would the pillar-hand miss mine, a little may be?

–by Amanita Sen