Hands

What I would do in retirement never really worried me.  I don't bore easily.  Besides, I had the list of things I didn't have time for while I was teaching, raising my children, and caring for my parents.  Case in point:  extend my writing beyond professional prose.  As you've noticed, I've been experimenting with various forms.  Some of these experiments have ended up in this space.

Today is another example.  Months ago, I wrote about hands in response to a prompt.  This week, looking through my writer's notebook, I reread that piece and wondered what I could do with it.  Turns out, it can be a poem.  While mulling over the shape, I recalled a rhyme I read to the children when they were small.  Why I associated that particular rhyme to this subject remains a mystery. You will recognize the inspiration.

Hands

These are the hands that cradle fragile hearts.

These are the wrists, thin and bony,

                                    that produce the octaves

                                    that direct the choirs

                                    that open the jars

                                    that stir the birthday cakes

                                    that rotate the hands

that cradle fragile hearts.

These are the the palms, broad and tough,

that splashed babies in the bath

                                    that smooth sheets and tablecloths

                                    that gauged fevered foreheads

                                    that cupped Maman’s last luminous moment

that need the wrists

that rotate the hands

that cradle fragile hearts.

These are the fingers, long and thin,

that thread the needles

                                    that stitch the sequins

                                    that practice the scales

                                    that create the sounds

                                    that weave the words

                                    that place the dinner settings

                                    that season the dishes

                                    that wear the rings

                                    that extend the palms

that need the wrists

that rotate the hands

that cradle fragile hearts.

These are the nails,  cut to the quick,

                                    that bear the stress

                                    that disfigure the fingers

                                    that extend the palms

that need the wrists

that rotate the hands

that cradle fragile hearts.

These are the cuticles, gnawed and pulled,

                                    that attest to anxiety

                                    that witness deliberation

                                    that border the nails

                                    that disfigure the fingers

                                    that extend the palms

that need the wrists

that rotate the hands

that cradle fragile hearts.

These are the thumbs, scratched and worn,

                                    that decorate the pies

                                    that deal the cribbage hands

                                    that rub the spots

                                    that direct the comments pen

                                    that resemble the cuticles           

                                    that border the nails

                                    that disfigure the fingers

                                    that extend the palms

                                    that need the wrists

that rotate the hands

that cradle fragile hearts.

These are the hands, veined and splotchy,

                                    that tell my story

                                    of cradling fragile hearts.