I reach for grace

like stretching for a cup

of water in the heat

that seems too far away.

–

My fingers seem

at best to scratch the back

of worn and weathered hands

that hold the drink I crave

–

My mind. Practical.

like sluffing off a test

I know I cannot ace.

Should quit while I’m behind.

–

But thirst drives hope

that luck will close the gap

between my fingers and the

hands. A silly hope.

–

And so I cry

like water from a gutter.

I long for what is not

unless…those hands would move

–

The hands reach out.

And lovingly extend

the wet and cooling cup

now so close, and free.