WingSpan Poetry Project

CULTIVATING EMPOWERMENT THROUGH POETRY

Hands

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Hands

They have always caught my attention. They are the greatest tools a person can possess. They are each
set unique, full of character and possibility.
As an infant wiggles its tiny fingers for the first time, they begin to tell a journey not yet known.
Capable of receiving everything that enters the body, the hands both
give and receive love, nurture and create;
express every emotion felt, giving character and life to its words.
Hands can heal a distressed person. They can hurt and harm both the weak and the strong.
Hands facilitate life and manipulate death.
Hands create beautiful music and command instant silence.
Hands tell the story of your life’s journey. They are what distinguishes human from beast.

Your hands are what caught my eye. Their wear told a story of a journey of strength, talent, and most of all gentleness. My eyes watched carefully as you used your tools to ever so gently, direct a large harsh machine, so awkward in every way.
Your hands, skilled in intuitive touch, made the awkward yellow beast move as graceful and precise as if it were a ballet on impossible ground.
This I wanted to know more about. The person wearing these hands that could be so peaceful with this bulky object.
I began to learn of the hands that skillfully directed the motorcycle that helped me to feel free for the first time since losing my Son to his own need to feel free.
The same hands on those handlebars that I trusted unlike any others. While wind rushed at my face, pavement floated deceitfully by, the hands I trusted with the control to bring me safely home to my daughter waiting.
Hands that held every door, pulled out every chair.
Hands that wrapped themselves around mine with incredible feeling and warmth.
Hands that slipped the most thoughtful hard-earned engagement ring onto my small hand.
A beautiful symbol of your love and respect . . . so I thought.
Hands do speak, those very same hands that proudly wore my thumb ring on its pinky finger, boastfully ranking their size . . .
were the same hands that almost smothered the life out of me, covering my face with such force and strength as if I would take my last breath.
As if my own hands
that love, nurture, and create would go limp to life.
So hard to believe these hands I held in such high esteem, could roil themselves up like a catapulting hammer, cold and without feeling between my fragile eyes.
These same hands I had such admiration for would also be the same hands to grip my small frame so tight, there could be no escape.
The wounds your hands lent my body have healed.
Yet is still hurts so deeply to realize the hands that loved so gently are the same hands that hurt so deeply.
Hands that might have taken the life from my own.
The hands that captured my heart are the same Hands that scared my soul.

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