Tiny the hand that points ahead

Racing feet to catch the quarry
Follow the hand and see the dead
Raised to life–the face of glory
A gangly boy, an odd new limb
In place of what was once his own
Lopes on ahead, no longer grim
The mother smiles and lifts her phone
To catch a picture of his face
The face would split–his smile so broad
Little brother points and waves
The idle wheelchair forgotten, thawed
The hearts of lookers-on
And lend this soul a quiet song

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