Childhood fingers in forgiving sand,
Wet handfuls slither through watery gaps leaving muddy puddled palms.
Your finger stirs the glitter, eyes afire.
Harvest hands, thick with seeds and soil. Pluck the beans, shuck the corn;
Hoe blistered, sweat drops from forehead to soil, wheat beads burnished, ground, then bread.
Berries plump and purple stain fingers; juice dripped from your mouth leaves a red fang.
Saw in hand, shaping, a vision turned solid; sanding, wiping, smoothing, the slim girl statue silently seductive.
A finger wipes a tear; brown eyes darker yet with uncertainty; finger tips untouched, pulled away; words unsaid in rough silence.
Hands in motion, running, catching, throwing, grabbing, celebrating victory, fists pounded in defeat; ball sent soaring, watched like a bird in flight. Bat stinging from the blow, then flipped, clapping, your hands were.
Construction hands, bridge hands, roads hands, hanging front door hands;
Fingers pricked by rose thorns, fingers strain to pull roots, grit fills wrinkled knuckles. You smell the plucked blossom, smile.
Hands of war, bullet bought, air ripe with scalded screams, a silence never settles.
Pen in fingers, words drawn deep, shaped, soothing, then tearing, some forgiven, some too dark, my hand pushed away.
Hands of life, living, breathing, loving, taking and giving.
Skin sagging, blue veined, fingers bent stiff from forgotten events.
Hands still alive.
Lips touching your soft palm.
Fingers brush away the salty sand from your sun-brown shoulders.