prints

(This is a poem I wrote a while ago and ran across again. I still like it.)

it's so easy to sit and stare at white walls
pierced by empty nails
that once held gifts you gave freely
and not miss the hands that gave more than prints.
but, sometimes, when it's late
and the nails seem like voids,
i can remember
the way
your eyes
pierced my heart
as you handed them over,
the "little-somethin-that-made-you-think-of-me."
(a tear and smile appear
simultaneously.)

those empty nails have held heavy memories
soon to be replaced with prints i make myself
(because my heart can't take any more smudges)
as i take hold of the hammer
and make this place my home,
i stand back and smile...
perfectly level.