Sometimes if I am paying attention,
I catch sight of my Nanie hands
A desert landscape vast and
Freckled with nurturing kisses from nature
Changing without recollection
of what came before and it is here
I remember
Deep curiosity with sneaky eyes
catching glimpses like snapshots of my
grandmother's aging hands:
knitting large afghans effortlessly
folded neatly on lap at rest and peace
reaching slightly when receiving affection
Weathered like leather, year after year
they spoke of risk and adventure
deep trenches and uneven terrain
Striving still with grace and purpose
And now I have found my own hands
Softly shaping skin into dunes resting
Incomplete without intentional fault lines
tracking back to random grooves,
scars serving as guideposts for a life lived
Carried by hands
Stored in hearts
Broadcasted on faces
Illuminated through feelings
What do you see when you
look at your hands?
Where has your journey
carried you?
How will you use them
to find new spaces?
Who will you let hold
them when you need it?
Why does any of this
mean anything?
The answers are written on hands
Like an existential map book
Traveling by way of our hearts.
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