My hands are at rest.
\nThe deep wide tributaries
\nof their veins are swamped.
\nNot as severe as when
\nthey are living the life of hands,
\nreaching, pulling,
\ntouching delicately the moist edge
\nof an eye,
\nthe smooth, briskness of paper.<\/p>\n
I found my grandmother\u2019s hands extraordinary.
\nWith huge, blue veins like bridling,
\nlike cords of damp silk.
\nShe was old in her hands,
\nwhere she did all the charity
\nof her living,
\ncombing the hair of grandchildren,
\ncooking porridge,
\ncrocheting small stars on white napkins.<\/p>\n
Now my hands reflect that complexion
\nof planetary age,
\nyet my face is not fissured,
\nbut peacefully smooth,
\nuniform as ironed cloth.
\nOnly my hands show wear,
\nthe damage of life,
\nand hold the intention of my soul
\nin their fingers.<\/p>\n
Ashamed, I shield them from clerks
\nby exposing only my palms for change,
\nby placing them behind me when speaking.
\nYet they are the gifted part of me.
\nA garden with beautiful memories
\nand enormous poems,
\nwriting themselves in labor,
\nin love, in prayer.<\/p>\n
I love hands.
\nI reach for hands,
\nyoung and old,
\nworn or unused.
\nThey tell the world a story,
\nand give themselves away.
\nMy hands are sleeping now.
\nLet them rest,
\nwhile I look at their innocence.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My hands are at rest. The deep wide tributaries of their veins are swamped. Not as severe as when they are living the life of…<\/p>\n