Her Hands


Her hands,
soft, wrinkled and full of compassion.
They touch,
heal and grow everything & one
blessed enough to
experience them.
Her hands, clutched in prayer
for her children, their children,
their children &
those not birthed by way of hers.
Loving knows not the work
of these hands,
fingers kneading dough,
not needing doe,
to feed the ones who can
only stare at her hands.
Lawd, how many ties tied &
unhung clothes dried by
her hands?
How many times have they
flew up to You &
wiped tears of the youth,
embracing arms of rocking chairs,
sticks of picket signs,
pens to protect justice on paper &
open wide to welcome peace?
Hands with definition,
lines, unmanicured nails yet
more beautiful than any
French Riviera painting,
dipped twice in holy water.
Have you ever witnessed
the illumination of flesh?
Those that belonged to
Nurses, Teachers, Evening Stars
with no degrees but
wise beyond depth of
the Nile River?
Ever wondered what it
would be like to feel the
embrace of the descendants
molded by Hands?
Maybe you should read Embracing…
those hands were raised by these hands…



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