Just now I saw a man his shoulders bent by past and sad events which can a drooping life outlast. My heart, though wrenched, was given pause; He'd caged his anger and that cage I felt could rip without good cause: I feared his stewing seething rage. Then into wishful reverie my thought Imagined that the healing hand unborn Felt into him, to where his soul was caught; Felt into him, where growing boy was torn, And touched some vital spring of life. He filled with supple fluid balm; Was free from burdens of past strife. I loved his gentle solid calm. The unborn hand at last restores the soul to health. Hot will lets go of past in healing love of self.