Your Hands

Your hands.

I’m trying to write you a poem,

And the first thing that comes to mind is

Your hands.

They have

The strength to root out weeds,

The gentleness to sow beauty,

From my soul, in my soul.

Your hands,

Always helping everyone out,

Always giving without doubt,

Always creating something magical.

Serving

Hearty chili to other broke college kids,
Cake so delicious it lifts up the spirit,

Freshly brewed tea to everyone you meet.

Praying

Fiercely, when all hope seems lost,

Softly, if the waves are frightfully rough,

Yet pleading unceasingly and unwaveringly so.

Loving

Many times, with a bleeding heart,

Lighting up the darkness around,

Binding up wounds and smoothing out scars.

The crazy part is that if I’m asked

To describe what your actual hands look like

I come up empty—

I’ve never been a careful observer.

So my heart sinks—

How many times

Were your hands so ready

To pull me out of the void?

Yet I can’t remember

Any more than their slenderness,

Their whiteness, their warmth,
And how I took them for granted.

Your hands.

They are not around.

My days languish by

Without the comfort of their embrace.

They can’t

Patch me up anymore,

Smooth out the worry on my soul,

Water the roots of my dry bones.

Grief

Overpowers me often,

And homesickness

nestles in my chest.

But if I, in my wandering,

Close my eyes and say a prayer,

I suddenly stumble upon

The sweetest of truths:

Your hands

Don’t really matter,

Since your heart

Is intertwined with mine.