My Hands

My hands are small and beautiful

They’ve written poetry through heartbreak

and colloquiums in undergraduate school

They’ve crafted thousands of loaves

of scratch-made bread that fed

families at their dinner table

They’ve built desks, and walls and fences

and sturdy wooden beds

They’ve nurtured the most precious babe

from my womb,

through triumph and sadness

and into womanhood

They’ve provided shelter with long, hard work

and been immersed

in dirty water when the plates came back

from the bountiful table

prepared by their efforts

My hands have given instruction to the novice

and direction to the lost wanderer

My hands have aided men in great success, lent strength

and caressed their exposed skin

My hands have consoled the weary, provided for the homeless

and wiped tears from faces wrinkled with pain

My hands have painted one-of-kind masterpieces

prepared a perfect cup of tea

And written melodies on guitar strings

They've designed garments, clothed bodies

and recorded history

with perfect clicks of a camera shutter

My hands compose sonnets and old-fashioned letters

to friends and lovers that arrive by courier

My hands pray for truth

wield a vision

and plead for peace

My hands though small and delicate

have yet to be proven weak.

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