Read more ...

Someone said, "Your feet

are better cared for than your hands."

Which is not true. I care for my hands

Because they are the extension of my soul.

They touch with wonder a newborn babe,

a lover, a sad child, exploring tenderly

every contour of all the ones I ever loved.

My hands can hold a horse in contained

suspended power, and yet, when he

yields to its asking, my hand is soft as

swansdown on the rein that links my

will to his wish to respond .

My hands have cupped hens' eggs

Filled with peeping chicks.

My hands have cupped man's eggs

Filled with lifegiving seed.

They have prepared countless dinners

Washed endless dishes, pulled weeds,

picked flowers, turned a ton of compost.

Oh, they are cared for hands.

They have a long life still, these hands

Which have served me so well.

 I never bit their nails, so at the tips

there are infinitely tender pads,

Which, if I put them to your pulse,

Can even read your thoughts.

I love my hands.

Now I will take my pen from this page,

lift them to my lips,

and kiss each fingertip.

© Lynne Harris