Nine Inches From Your Hand Poem by James McLain

Nine inches from your hand,
But that was long ago.
When I was very young,
Your hair it smelled of spring,
Against you out of reach.
Nine inches from your hand,
You never knew.
About the hole I watched,
You through.
I could have been a mile away,
I saw,
Your tounge when you smiled.
And knowing all your secrets,
That I knew.
Each day,
you found a pile of snow.
Outside your window where I stood,
And it was cold.