Hands

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Hands

For they are a castle built of tiny blocks
Digit by digit
For each has a talent
For each has a task
And tis not always parallel
For they tell a story
For they can be rough
From a man who has spent his 80 years working in mines under his beloved's footsteps
For they can be sore and weary
From a woman who writes everyday her fingers ache and her pencil bleeds out
Until her soul stops crying
For they can be soft
From a child who spends her time brushing dolls' hair and stroking fuzzy Teddy bears
For they can be dirty
From a child who digs in mud and he imagines he's reached China
For they can be of all sizes and still be hands
For they reach and bend into new shapes
For they are not one color
For they are a caribbean smoothie greeting you under the warm orange glow
A blend of colors
For they are art as they create art
For they dance along the white teeth who sing melodies
By the hands demands
For they fit like puzzles
And they hold tight onto one another
For they are a giant puzzle
Ripped apart to be single and alone
And it feels like ecstasy when they slide into place again
For they pound little squares and create words
For they have bumps and bruises
For they are made of lines
And no two are the same
For you don't need hands for everything
But you have them for anything
For they feel
For they speak secrets eyes can't tell
For they talk
For they can be warm
Or they can be cold
When you grab a cold hand
Your nerves dance
When you grab a warm hand
The feeling hugs your icy skin
For they limp when you take them for granted and work them to the bone
For they are made of many layers
For they are a vehicle
Working by the motion of tiny wheels grinding and sliding within
For they hold the delta of a river
For they are the connection between you and your world
For they jump along strings on the wooden music maker
For they grow little shields
For they claw at sensations along your skin
For they close doors and open others
For they dress themselves in ravishing decor
For they swim through the vast valleys in a puppies curly hair
For they catch the winning balls that make the crowd roar
For they clasp in the air but they cannot grab sunlight
For the seep through the blend of cold, wet transparent
For they twirl soft strands of head water fall
For they ooze scarlet stories and truth
For all the things in the world
For whatever hands are
They are the most unique
For they have the most power





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This article has 4 comments. Post your own now!

schmoopel said...
Nov. 30, 2011 at 6:41 pm
Very lovely and thought provoking..  'm sitting looking at my hands now in a whole new way.
 
valbb said...
Nov. 23, 2011 at 5:12 pm
this poem really made me stop and think about the beauty of our hands. Thanks
 
jjsmith said...
Nov. 23, 2011 at 3:05 pm
This is a beautifully written. Very deep- makes you think
 
Bgeek24 said...
Nov. 22, 2011 at 3:57 pm
this is amazing:) thats all I can say!
 
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