The Secret of Touch
By John Herlihy

The deep secret of touch,
The fine art of being touched.
A sensation awakening,
A blessing partaking.

Fingers falling as leaves every place,
Belonging only to the human race,
Gentle to the touch,
But giving over so much.

Touch quietly tells you,
What you need to know.
Touch quietly reveals to you,
Something of the self you don’t know.

Without the sense of touch,
The living hand is dead.
The magic wand of each finger
Is lifeless and cold instead.

Sublime touch unfolding,
A sacred scroll unrolling,
Perfection in one’s hands,
Ecstasy in one’s glands.

In touching smooth texture,
We exact a brief measure,
Of what a thing can feel,
Making itself known as real.

To read the braille of an encounter,
Tapered fingers over texture lazily saunter,
While we walk around as though blind,
Locked within the embrace of humankind.

A gentle touch much like flower petals,
When they fall free, one feels a rush.
A kiss is but the magic touch of love;
Wind as breath from the wings of a dove.

Intimacy opens it fragile petals,
Porcelain flowers in vivid bloom,
Touch shining as unfolding light,
Multi-mirrored in a lacquered room.

In holding a thing of beauty in hand,
I can all the evil of the world withstand.
The feel of the beauty is more than enough;
Tactile innocence found in smooth or rough.

The sheer poetry of texture and form;
The arousal that all true art will adorn.
Everything desires ardently to be touched,
To wait patiently, never hesitant or rushed.