Recently I came across a poem I had written probably four or five years ago, and I experienced the rare feeling of enjoying something I had written. I wanted to share my work with everyone, so here’s an extra mid-week post with my poem Hands.
When asked about my favorite part of you,
I replied ‘hands.’
You looked at me, confused but curious.
“Not eyes, not a smile?”
They’re the busiest part of you,
Used to create, and for some, destroy.
One hand could be used to bring peace to a community,
And another could simply raise up and destroy lives.
They are used to pray, to praise, to show, and even to speak.
When someone holds you and uses their fingers to reach out and touch,
It should be a sign of their surrender and trust.
They connect to your mind and carry out any action you desire.
However, it’s not just what they do,
It’s what they are.
Hands are maps,
Veins course through them and twist and turn like gnarled branches,
But they all lead back to your heart.
The sandpaper calluses, the wrinkles that come with the years, the scars…
They all tell stories, however beautiful or horrible they may be.
They are honest,
And no other part of you could accomplish what they do.
So when you hold my hand,
You are doing more than just that.
I am trusting you to guard my heart as well,
And to be as honest as your hands.
I’d love to hear any thoughts or comments you have below! Thanks for reading this!