The Hands of God

New to us, She holds my finger
Kisses on her forehead, her palm.
Whispered tender words of love
Gently arranged in her place.

Turning to leave, not the nursery
Prepared in anticipation for birth,
This is a place of healing, a hospital,
Not my home—not her room…

A piece of me remains behind..
Hands that have been blessed
Tend to my delicate, tender angel,
Her needs attended by another.

Absences keenly felt, grinds my heart.
He who holds me in grief, fear, pain
Must hold her in our separation.
Imagining her held by Him, soothes.

Thoughts of life, possible death…
Leaving her now a foreshadowing?
God’s Hands—my hands, my home?
Or His? Trust mingles with hope.

God’s Hands holds each, if we allow.
Picture in my mind sees her, my angel,
Here on earth, pain free, home.
Holding images of us, all, forever.

By Leta Greene