Hands at Rest
By John Herlihy

The hands lay at rest like an ancient etching,
The hands raised up as if in the act of fetching,
The hands cupped devotedly in an act of prayer,
The hands resting on the face in quiet despair.

Our two hands are an appendage of the soul,
With expressive gestures, they play their role.
Often emotive, poetic, seldom completely at rest,
Offering themselves up, they do nothing in jest.

A life etched in wrinkles across the hand’s palm,
On ancient papayrus, appearing as a sacred psalm.
The aging fingers have the look of amazing grace,
To complement the wrinkled parchment of the face.

We wring them, shake them, hold them up high;
They speak volumes; we half expect them to sigh.
They are dexterous, flippant, casual, or lay at peace;
They work for us throughout the day and never cease.

Take then my hand, I say, to my beloved grandchild;
He looks up with trust as my beating heart runs wild.
His pudgy little fist locks on to my wrinkled old finger;
This memory will last, it has already begun to linger.

In a strange way, hands express the heart of humanity;
Through the mystery of touch, we discover our sanity.
Here is my hand, do take it, hold it, only an empty glove;
Still, nothing compares to its expression of human love.