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Stepping from a grey mist, invisible
I stare at my hands. Perfectly wounded
fingers curl inward to embrace my palms.
My blood has no color, I am cold.
A stark impassive moon seems to observe
with hollow eyes. Thin slate clouds veil her smile.

I glide inches above the earth. The smile
forgotten from my face. Invisible
Memory. I begin now to observe
my surroundings. I am direly wounded
in my soul. I no longer feel the cold
My body fades as I look at my palms.

No stigmata marks them now. Skinless palms.
Translucent arms now empty. Long lost smile
left behind. Intangible, I slip coldly
through the trees. My heart is invisible.
Carnal organ discarded, lies wounded.
No emotions now. Simple observance.

The forest seems to watch, observing
with many eyes. Uncaring, I now palm
my face. Nothing to touch. Frail wounded
mask lies in the dirt, perhaps still smiling.
No need for expressions. Invisible
I continue to blend with the deep cold.

My essence is a foundling. It lies cold
upon the doorstep of my observing
mind. Unknown, ignorant, invisible,
wishing welcome. I ignore it. With palms
turned upward, It begs for my aide. It smiles
beguiling me. I relent. Yes! Wounded

though I am, I embrace the waif. Wounded
dark orphan. She weeps joyously now. Cold
Birth. She is becoming. I give her succor. We smile
From within us. We are one. Observance
of this blending brings warmth. I now feel my Palms
becoming incarnate. Invisible.

To heal wounds that are invisible, My
cold palms embrace a transparent child,
with smiles and warm observance she will melt.

Ramona Gibson Hughes
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