Well Worked Hands
a simple working man's ode to his hands
Nothing gets cut more than well worked hands
Even as I write this, my thumb has a slice in it
Where a sharp chisel strayed
My index finger has a puncture wound
Where a large splinter pierced it
I’ve always kept my nails short
Well below the pads of each tip.
Large palms, long fingers,
Two wayward knuckles from old dislocations
Scarred, calloused, strong, sensitive
Tools feel natural in them.
Pen, paintbrush, hammer, chisel, shovel, ax
The gift of these well worked hands,
Able to touch and explore infinite textures
Extensions of my heart, mind, and complex lineage
Even helping pull our four children into the world.
These hands are not even mine
They’re extensions of Inamorata Herself
Her Invisible power coursing from every fingertip
Existing, creating, and Loving only for Her.
A beautiful ode to working hands. I was surprised at Inamorata's entry in the final lines. Well, I have been reading you for a while, but I do like the element of surprise. So special, thank you for sharing.
I love poetry about the manual, tactile, dexterous parts of life!
Hands are wild aren’t they? I’m convinced memories exist in them from past lives
Ever seen a baby weave a basket or receive a knife like an adult when passed it? Crazy stuff in those digits
Thanks for the poem