Nurturing Hands


For most…

There comes a time
when needle and thread
has nothing to mend,
when little cheeks glow faintly,
the pinching of color
having aged drab
when life’s rose thorns
wave their hellos over and over…
again.

Because our unique hands
can nurture a life,
can hold one in a death grip,
or willingly detach,
leave an intertwining
to become another iteration,
another discovery of one’s ten-finger journey.

For most everyone…

By these hands
mates will be caressed,
births will be ushered in,
a new generation cherished by some
used, rejected, and discarded by others.

For with these hands
all types of weapons are held firm,
often snuffing out life by gavel,
gun,
vote,
and deception.

What consciousness could not cherish the potential of one’s hands
knowing the simple touching of a stargazing lily
can bring tears of its pistil clinging,
reminding us that like cupping a child’s face
with compassion’s simple touch of care,
one is truly being-here-now
living an undeniable all-is-one,
one is all.

And…

For those of us who write,
through these appendages,
tendrils of the mind
oblige words be made,
furthering ideas not yet born,
shaking hands with reflection,
creating together sounds of understanding,
perceptions needing to be heard,
life’s simple imagination knowing only to be.

Yet…

Nurturing hands
can also be placed over the eyes
thatching closed ever-present light,
delivering its fearful alternate…

darkness.