Small gawky boy
Nose like the beak of an eyas,
I pass a glance to his hands
bronzed and thin upon the table
and find myself time travelling.
Immersed in visions of those hands
Stroking keys, coaxing music,
Mesmerizing me. Those hands
On other arms years ago.
I blink back to now and stare as he stumbles,
Endearingly uncoordinated, into a wall.
I watch him in a crowd, catch the flash of his smile
And am transported into that smile
Gleaming at me in another time
from another face.
Wondering at my sanity,
I check his files,
Find the name I know from long ago
and understand:
History is written in our blood
And carved upon our bones.
The tilt of our heads,
The rhythm of our laughter
The angle of our shoulders,
the shape of our souls,
Are revealed in the genetic mystery
That can be read through time,
by those who see the story.
Shawn L. Bird 
Genetics run earthquake deep.
They do indeed.
Ms Bird, I feel like I understand your poem. It feels like something that I would write, finding a story in the features, or hands of someone else. Great title, too.
I’m glad you were able to find connection.
Love your words wonderful…Amani (peace)
Peace to you.
Beautifully haunting.
Thanks.
Wow! This is an outstanding poem! Excellent job! 🙂
Glad you like it, Danielle.
It has that delicious frisson which comes from such a revelation!
🙂 Frisson. Good word!
Girl! You’re good. You had me at time traveling.
lol
I tell ya, it’s crazy when it happens!
This is a wonderful capture. Well Done! 🙂
Thanks, I’m glad you like it, Lisa.