The Man Who Walked With His Hands

On a dreary December night, just like this

There stood a man

Calm and unassuming.

He walked too gently for my liking

There wasn't a dent where his feet went

He made no ripples in the sand

But it’s no matter, 

This is a legend about his hands

Where his feet crept, 

his hands leapt

Dancing across pages, 

painting entire 

worlds 

Or just one little girl, head full of curls 

They sang too, coaxing imperfect melody 

too shy to become song

But still we hummed along

He held no magic

...although in some lights he almost seemed to shine

It's not that kind of legend

You could’ve passed him on the street

Hey! I think you just did

No need to go after him, I know his secret 

He told me once, 

on a dreary December night just like this:

He never created beauty 

It was always there, hiding 

in ordinary things

That was his power, leaving the world 

A little prettier than he found it. 

And so it began, the legend of

The Man Who Walked With His Hands.