These Hands Stop for Nothing

These hands are my hands –
covered in
dirt,
cooking grease,
Lysol disinfectant,
the slippery skin of baby’s bath time,
your larger hand’s embrace,
my own chin, when pondering
life’s next move down the river.

Memory comes in many colors –
the ardent passion of red,
the bright, bold blue of decision making,
the white nothingness of tomorrow.

These hands rest in yours at night,
when our dreams comingle –
when I clutch you for warmth –
just to know that you are there.

These dry, cracked, chapped, bleeding hands
stop for nothing,
because expectation urges me on
with no window –
no opening to the meadow of bare feet.

These Hands Stop for Nothing

So I use these hands to make things,
to mend things,
to gently care for things.
These healing hands
long to touch the blood red petals of the poppy.
These hands are made of earth and clay.
These are my hands.