Her works

Hands

Remember the good they can do.

Have done.

Will do.

 

The hands they held.

Many hands, through the years.

People you loved,

others you “merely” cared about,

or cared for.

A man who loved you held your hand a few times,

never for very long.

His hands were warm,

and large,

and soft,

and gentle.

 

You held all kinds of hands.

Thin.

Bony.

Loose-skinned.

Calloused.

Your little sister’s hand.

Soft as a sausage, you used to say.

 

If you wanted, you could recall his hands, of the one who hurt you so,

who almost drove you mad.

 

The hands of Rain, soft, white as milk,

double-jointed, so very skilled.

Sometimes you think you can almost remember what their touch felt like.

You held the hands of the dying, of the scared, the hurting.

Your friends, occasionally.

Sand, water, stone, fur, piano keys, fish skin, flowers, books, God, life and beauty…

 

 

(C) My dear friend

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s