His hand


My soul loves the steady pulse of God’s palm on her shoulder, reassuring the small girl within herthat he is near

but sometimes she grows frightened when his hand lifts,

and the wind whispers in her ears, scattering bits of sand around her eyelashes 

through which she can see if she looks

his lifted hand pointing, his warm voice glowing  “Come on sweetheart, lets go,

this way”

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