these hands would be humble touching you.
these hands keep few secrets, like mirrors don’t.
red for my heart. luminous where stars are inside.
these hands are a map. all the sacred terrain, grown to this.
they have guided sails into wind. have given up coins when asked.
have rowed a boat. have been fish in the sea.
have felt water and wind and earth and sky.
they have scribbled poems on yellow paper.
these hands will find their way in the dark.
have held a dying mother’s hand. not sad.
they will guide you home. again.
these hands wrote their own history, so they say.
these hands have a mother and a father.
pockets. maybe that’s where I put them last.
they are the hands I have earned.
scraped, bruised, made to bleed, nearly broken.
they’ve met forever several times.
then you came along. rivers do bend.