Not smooth, not rough,
Just textured enough
By time and creation.
The hands that captured the sea,
Rode the white wave,
And curled it onto the shore.
The hands that painted the eyes of God
In the face of Jesus,
From the reflection in a mirror.
The hands that reached out in youth
To a golden face,
And felt in those eyes his heart.
The hands that encircled the curve
Of a baby girl’s body,
And then buried it in tears and dust.
The hands that waved and danced
For one more round
In a whirling, drunken trance.
The hands that wielded flame on metal,
While sparks seared his skin,
To sculpt a house for fire to grow in.
The hands that caressed paper and leaf,
Sending it a spark of light,
To watch smoke curl over his fingers.
The hands that feathered a lover’s skin
From face to breasts,
To…softer places underneath.
The hands that stretched the truth,
And shrank what’s real,
To make a story fill the room.
The hands that tied the knots,
And cast the line
To teach a child to fend.
The hands that beat the strings,
And stroked the keys
To make our souls dance in our ears.
The hands that reached in anguish
To plead for mercy
To beg forgiveness again.
The hands that pulled the trigger,
But refused to end
A life that turned to darkness.
The hands that reached in love
To embrace a new angel,
And pass the music on.
The music that feeds his soul.
The art that gives him life.
The spirit that moves these hands.