Consider Your Hand

Consider, if you will, your hand, your own hand,

not any hand, not the image of a hand, but your own hand,

creased and cracked, its life lines spread across your palm,

its fingerprints uniquely yours, uniquely you; consider those

long slender fingers, or the short stubby ones, like mine,

that kept me from mastering the piano, or perhaps, hands

far from those of a model, or maybe too small to grasp a ball

and throw it, no 60-yard pass for the winning touchdown,

nor the long throw back to home, a game-saving out from deep

left field, unless, that is your hand. Consider what you can do,

have done, with that hand, clutched a pen and scribbled

across the page, words flowing out, in rhyme and meter, held

a brush or chisel to draw out art from a medium, reconstructing

something old, or crafting from scratch something new;

consider what your hand has touched, the course skin

of a stone or the smooth surface of polished marble, the sharp

edge of a knife, or the softness of a puppy’s fur, the heat

of a roaring fire warming cold fingers held out to it and the

cold of ice and snow brushed away from a darkened window.

Consider your hand, fingers intertwined, laced with the fingers

of your other hand in prayer, palm to palm, a friendly, firm hand-

shake of a brother, or the hand of another needing nothing more

than the touch of another person, softly placed, to ease their pain,

and perhaps, your own, that shared touch of love; consider your hand,

now entwined in someone else’s, held tight, warm, walking

the packed sand of the ocean’s shore on a star filled night, the moon

bright overhead, and the delicate brush of the waves illumined,

your hand shared with another, touching hearts, one spirit joining.