the lace of her fingers guide her to worlds unknown
like trains they travel the pen to the paper
the palm rests and sleeps until it is wakened
just to smudge the basil from her own mouth— or the watercolor on her lips— or is christened with ink when the typewriter storms
her hands, are home sweet home and never fail to tap-dance when telling a theatrical tale, or perch at her lip when her mind’s turning as a record player
or ever hesitate to take his hands, close them in hers and transmute her world, her thoughts, that lead him into the unknown.