My right hand knows so much—
holds ledgers of history,
dates, neat columns of numbers,
ideas to weight the big picture.

My left, dear left,
holds a skittering mess,
jumbled sights and sounds—
like the tiny spider in the shower,
words loved for sound alone—
Falluja, sussurate, lip, jam,
the lingering taste of raisins, capers,
smell of fresh-cut grapefruit,
thawing earth.
Remembered open vastness of salt,
rush of wind on face, on ears
sand underfoot.

And now pink geraniums
growing at the window,
waiting for May and outdoors.
All this, more, in
my noticing left hand.