Synecdoche

This word was new to me; the NY Times had an LTE with it as the title. It means utilizing a description of a part to capture the essence of the whole.

1/23/2009

After "The Hands of a Ball Bearing Worker" -

The huge hands of a stevedore
are not your hands.
No thick boundary.
Fingertips touch like silken filigee
I see them folding, brushing.
Ineffable, fragile softness.

Worn jeans cling to the great
muscle of your thigh.
No blue boundary.
Rather, they caress what they retain.
Fabric, warmed by skin, suffused by soul.
Is the matrix fragile to the touch?

The dirty boots of winter
are not your shoes.
No leather boundary.
Black floral slippers caress nylon feet.
My ankles feel the embrace of your flesh.

Shoulder-length golden cowl
is not your hair.
No silken boundary.
Not content to cover,
It plays and dances across unseen nape.
I feel the animating energy.

In the crepuscule of the dawn,
When all is still as the

silence

of the spaces

between words,

I wake to the synecdoche.
Images touch and tremble my soul.
The whole is unknowably greater.