From P.F., Ashland, OR

Healing hands reach from the heart,
Open channels for a touch
That the textbook cannot teach.
Healing eyes, glowing face,
Open to give,
Sensitive enough to receive, too full to waste time.
Protecting old fragile feelings,
Too busy living to worry about death.
The healer knows death intimately, without fear
Respecting its kick-ass priority setting, but not bowing to its illusionary power
The healer is humbled only by the Giver of Life.

Her true strength is invisible to the casual passerby.
Her inner beauty is unseen by all who are caught in appearances.
The passerby may never know, he was changed by her healing touch
Save deep in his heart
Which walks away singing its own silent song.
Chris, this poem is about and for you.