Her hands chisel the air
with knives of language
designed for other sculptors
of the silent world
and some select few
who took the time to learn.
I watch the graceful finger-knives
argue sense from insensitivity
and cross the fence of understanding
into my green yard of comfort.
Her eyes, intent on mine,
punch meaning into the shaping.
I long to cry out loud so she can hear:
"I love you!"
Her smile warms my learning hands.

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