Once I sat by a child
Traveling by plane,
He sipped a cold drink,
Spit ice on his tray,
Spilled half his drink.
To stifle a cry
I used my spare napkin,
Dabbed at his tray, and
Tried distraction.
Do you like ice?
A nod —
On the edge
Of uncertain —
Overcame confusion;
Opened a curtain,
Offered a cube, he sucked
And chewed :
Wondered as he crunched.
I put another in his palm
Asked how it felt?
Cold, he mused.
Can you hold it a minute?
Yes, he said,
Accepting the challenge.
Keep your hand flat,
Tell me what happens?
Eyes glued on the cube,
Growing much smaller,
Soon only water.
I asked, did he know why?
He shook his young head,
Not really,
licking it up.
Your hand —
Warm and friendly,
Like the heart,
Beating within you,
Made it melt.
I made that happen?
I nodded gently.
He looked puzzled,
Shook an angry wet fist,
Demanded his ice.
That’s the way things go,
I smiled,
From cold to warm,
Hard to soft,
We start cold and hard, then
Melt down stream,
Change over time,
Dissolved in our own heat.
Hard edges chipped and
rounded by time,
dares you ask questions.
The child picked up another,
Held it tightly.
Slippery in wet fingers, it
Squished across the tray.
He raised an empty hand,
felt power and frustration,
knew loss of control.
I offered one bigger; amazed
By the crystal hardness,
the child held it to the light,
Turned it over
Felt a chill.
Remembered what happened,
Relished the thrill.
THH
6-8-26
Thoughts Have Hands 