Hands are tiny.

They dart in the lights,
smokey with drum beats
and smiles.
Hands are tiny.
They find their way to the sun
through burning ashes
and the spoils of summer.
Hands are tiny.
Hers rests on the shoulder 
of considered happiness 
that doesn’t remember
the lyrics.
Can’t sing along.
Hands are tiny.
Yours feel there way into
my drums, beating sunshine
at the end of summer 
accept this happiness 
when tiny hands
gather all that has fallen.