October 16, 2007
By Tiffnee Wertenberger, Eaton, CO



My hands are from both my parents.
Mine are
skinny like my mother’s
short like my father’s.
From a bruised fingernail to callused tips.
Between the hair and veins,
Around the index finger and
Over to the ring the scar I got from a pencil.


My hands want to help in the aid and care for the people who dare.
My hands can hold yours
They can wipe away your tears
Make sure you don’t slip away
Pick up the things you left behind
Hold you back when you are about to fall
Cover your eyes, hears, and protect your heart
Give more than what you need

Of Peace

These hands want justice brought to children who are abused and broken.
My hands want to see an end to the starvation, rape, and senseless death.
Will not judge with what yours looks like
Try to make sense of the world
Question until gets the right answers
Stand up and show no fists
Make art from destruction
Plant new beginnings in old hearts

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