Hands

I love my hands

Looking at the slim fingers bring about a new image everytime. 

The branches of a tree, curving and curling,

Replicas of the edges of my fingers. 

Leaf sprouts reaching toward the light, the life,

the way my palm reaches toward the warmth of the stars.

Speed at its purest, 

Hands racing and finger tips fluttering, fleshy birds in flight;

Spasmatic movements forming music notes with black ink and white keys.

A drawing,

The contours of my grasp lining up flawlessly with the paint strokes.

Calluses forming like lines on a tree,

Wear and tear and age displayed like trophies on my epidermis.

My hands are a veined leaf carried up stream

They are dust on the air and graceful as a dancer.

My hands are swift yet gentle,

Fierce and beautiful.

My hands are my money and my life,

I can't live without them.