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
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?