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January 18, 2012
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Hands.
Wrinkled with the intricacy of lace.
The color of coffee
when the cream diffuses into it
becoming grayish, almost translucent.
Bluish veins gently push their way
into view, large and soft
like squashy mountains
for the memories that live
between the gentle folds of skin.
Bulbous knuckles
keep long, narrow fingers
slightly bent.
Calluses etch chalked white,
circular lines around them
and over the fingertips.
A rocky, ragged hillside
creates the ridges
of bumpy nails.
The fingers move only slightly,
seeming to creak as they do.
The memories are released
as their homes shift with the movement,
and you can hear them whispering their songs
as they drift away
on the stale air.
The music paints watercolors.
In midair, the singing is caught
by another pair of

Hands.
Lightly lined like crisp new ice
on the blacktop.
The color of coffee
with just a teaspoonful
of vanilla cream
poured in-- rich, thick.
Thin, shy blue veins,
hiding under gentle folds of skin,
crisscross elegantly.
A clear pattern of circular lines
dance around the knuckles and their
slightly embarrassed pink flush
The thin, small ridges
on the translucent nails reflect light
like the ripples in a river
when a pebble descends below its surface.
The memories,
laughing like splashes of rain
onto the palm leaves of a summer day,
dance through these long fingers.
They move slightly,
trying to catch them.
Their silent song
harmonizes beautifully
with the creaking song
from the memories’ home.
They stroke the memories lightly
even as they leap away,
leaving a bright string of pastel
to dance with the memories’ music.
The elusive, smoky memories
are clumsily snatched out of the air
by a pair of tiny, chubby

Hands.
They already sing, too.
The nails are clear
and perfectly fragile in miniature.
The knuckles form slight ridges
upon the long fingers.
Tiny, erratic lines circle them
like an interpretive dance.
Thin, intricate veins flow quietly,
a secret stream beneath the squashy flesh
of the sturdy ground
which will eventually
grow mountains.
The memory,
now trapped between the folds of the fist,
burrows into the soft flesh
making its mark
creating its own lines
on the blank, coffee-colored canvas.
And the chubby hand molds the sounds
and moves the lines like the soft waves
of wispy clouds wafted by the wind.

The memory is carefully handed
from the baby
through her mother’s arms
and back to her grandmother.
Just passed like that
from hand
to hand
to
Hands.





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