Bailey's Hands

Her hands are tiny and held tight
against her chest, her heart beneath.
She spreads them out to my delight,
and forms a sign; her thoughts release.

A pinky finger bent, goes straight;
a thumb to follow suit, and then
(I watch her work, my heart it aches)
She tries to point one more, and bend

the two remaining fingers down
to rest against her soft, pink palm.
Complete, she turns her hand around
to say those things we say to Mom:

“I love you,” “Mom I’ve said it. Here.”
Her little fingers have that gift,
of words they said I’d never hear.
To some fools silence is a rift;
To me, it holds the sweetest tears.