Half Full
My fingertips can feel again
They’d been numb for quite awhile
Oh such things
To do with them
This tapping time was not my style
My palms are warming plump again
The chilly fists they’d made are free
To press them on
The pulsing world
This holding empty was not me
My hands are reaching out again
With friction ridge and patterned palm
Toward sanguine space
Where instincts play
This beckoning could be my balm
-a.r.
Painting: The Dance By Penny Warden
sometimesihatemycat 
Glad for you
Thank you. I’m not quite there yet, this poem is a bit aspirational, but I can feel hints…and so I wrote about it. Always glad for your comments.
Then I wish for your aspiration to become real. Smiles.