Monday, August 9, 2010

My hands

my hands move against the wind
lines drawn across my palms
like so many days lived
in the shadow of water, wind and sun
my hands are no longer delicate
the nails broken and knuckles wide
in turn frostbitten and sunburned
my hands flutter when I speak
capturing the words I say
turning them over and over
gifting a few and holding others
for I might need some again
my hands are the last thing to sleep
after they turn out the lights
adjusting the covers and pillows
again and again
reaching and smoothing me
my hands worry me
with their constant searching
I try to busy them with poetry
but they know and I do too
that they won't be content
until they are in yours

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