Your hand

 

your hand

fragile

replete with vitality

laced with veins and arteries

padded with springy muscle

elegant bones the support trusses

you own this hand

it will fold whichever way you dream

each digit an extension of your unconscious

this hand can beckon, halt, support, negate

lose balance and it steadies you

cry and it wipes your tears away

 

All you artists,

let your hands give something form

and watch them express

what you never knew was in you.

All you workers,

allow the tasks to fall into place

marvel at what

your hands have wrought.

All you parents

brush hair, wash faces

prepare dinner

caress the infant

whose first unconscious expression of love

is the grasping of your fingers

in his warm little hand.

 

We are alive

how wondrous we are

with such capacities.

we wreck, we pet.

We let our hands lead us

these finite tools

a hand’s breadth

a finger’s length

flushed with redness, with vigor

Are we really

made of such things?

Are we really made by them?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

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