I can’t say what I want.

As I reflect, I am caressing one hand with the other,
the way I might apply hand lotion.
Or my lover might.
My elbows are on the arms of this old chair.
When I am puzzled, I place
the palm of my right hand
Over the back of the left and pull it to and fro,
as if to ease out a thought;
ask for a gift,
or pull it out of this hand by magic.
I write a line then sit up straight.
My lips are pursed;
I look up as if asking God to help
but I’m looking inwards
where a dream image may float by.
My left foot taps on the carpet,
calling the dead to return.
Now I’m  kneading my hands, I am anxious.
I  am uncertain.
I can’t say what I want.
I  intertwine my fingers, pull on them both ways
while looking out of the window.
The sap is rising  in the shrubs
and though no leaves  open
The branches and twigs have more color
than last year.
But you were here last year.
I bite my lip and narrow my eyes;
Who am I fighting?
Now my hands stretch and relax;
I smile.
The mind lives in the body.
Where?
The mind is the body.
How?
I frown in confusion and slight anger
at him for going.
It’s coffee time.
The door bell rings.
I stand up.