And now....a poem entitled Hands

Don't ask me why, but I felt like writing a poem. Now I really must get back to work. ;)

HANDS

I look at my hands

They are always in front of me

I see them clutching the steering wheel

on the way to the grocery store

or to school

or work

I see them when I type

or write

or fold jeans

sometimes they look youthful

smooth

sometimes the nails are long and red

or pink

most times the nails are short, ragged

clear

Sometimes they look old

the ligaments beginning to create ridges in the skin

the skin, beginning to show signs of wear

More and more lined

Sometimes I look at my daughter’s hands

so youthful and smooth

holding her iPod

or a pencil

or her lunch bag

her long nails painted black

or green

or blue

And I wish my hands looked like hers

that my nails weren’t bitten

and I was brave enough to wear those colors

but then I look at my hands

and I think

of the work these hands have done

the laundry

the dishes

the writing

the driving

the grasping

the hand-holding

the soothing

the tear-wiping

the poking       

the tickling

the braiding

and I think

Thank you, Lord, for hands