Hands that burn
Hands that sin
Hands that earn
Hands that give
Hands that build up
Hands that tear down
Hands that hold life
Hands that wear out
Hands that never give up
Hands that fight
Hands so beautiful yet rough
Hands that work without limitations
Hands that face age
Hands that protect through devastation
Hands that rejoice with praise
The healers’s hands
Powerful and strong
Yet so fragile an instrument
In such storms remain in prayer and calm
Poet’s Thoughts:
I remember when I was little I would play with my grandmother’s (pita) skin. I would pinch the skin and it would stay in place then I would flatten it again. I would put my hand against hers and study the differences wondering what all her hands have done. Every inch of us, whether it’s our skin or our bodies, etc. tells a story. Each story tells something different and worth remembering.
Cristina Isabel 