Trust Your Hand

Do he sing to Cupid,

when in need of love?

Or does he reach out to Heaven,

praying for a gentle dove?

When his heart leaps at the sight of thee,

his hand shrinks to the size of a bee.

It stings him upon its foolish action,

and yet begs for acts of attraction.

Stay you there hand, do not go near.

For he senses, nay, he fears,

that your misfortunate dealings have his love

sent away.

He doesn't know if she'll return now, save for the a new day.

Maybe in the morrow, all will be set right.

But for now hand, please, clutch your might.

You'll soon learn that your theatre has no guest,

rather the man now retreats, his mind amess:

He thinks his play no longer woos the maiden,

to who he swore his heart, with love laden.

His mind he gave her, his bones and limbs.

But love lives outwardly, it does not just sleep within.

The rejected hand, his patience slowly waning,

couldn't help but laugh at his master's waiting

of a miracle (well, from Heaven it wouldn't surely come!)

so onto the hand the man called: "Please help me some!"

So the hand came to the rescue,

And good he did too,

For no sooner did the man learn of the action

of picking a rose

and committing to the notion:

Love is an art of a split dose,

One of which is mind and heart

Flourishing good thoughts and deeds,

While the hand works its magic,

And with love, it achieves.