This ode is to my hands,
grown from my mother and father,
knuckles like ridges of a faraway
desert, the curves of my top lip,
or the fluxing waves of an ocean,
rising and falling,
like my breath.
My hands are soft,
inscribing change
into the tablet of life.
They turn white paper into
intricate black inkling symbols
teeming with lives’ stories.
My fingers are bridges
into the worlds beyond,
realms living inside my mind.
where a tear drop is a magnifying glass:
a portal to our shared
whispered wishes,
hiding fantasies,
loud ecstasy,
and transparent fears…
quietly dripping down into
our shared well,
the waters of our humanity.
From these channels,
creation germinates out of fertile soil,
whistling over canvas,
leaving her fingerprints,
traces of color
permeating our life.
The lines in the palm of my hand
intersect, meet and split off
like the infinite paths of this life.
My hands are a soft pillow,
they breathe in your joys,
your stories, and little habits,
and gently weaving them into bundles of
writing or painting.
My hands are alchemizers
that turn the sweet entropy
into orderly chaos,
into a frozen image of impermanence,
a scripture,
a canvas,
a dance.
These hands are offerings,
tinkering with mind
to create new ways we can
share this fleeting life
by refracting its own reflections
in the mirror of awareness.
Whimsical Thread 