Hands

Oh the hands I have known,
Oh the loves that have grown
From first sight of those wonders of skin,
Oh what wrinkles I’ve watched
And what smooth flesh I’ve touched,
Always wanting the stories within. 

The hands on the streets
Of the strangers we meet
Without really meeting at all…
Just one glimpse at their lives
Through these clues at their sides
Is enough to completely enthrall.

My dear father’s old hands
Tell the tale of a man
Who knows secrets of seasons and strife.
Without lips for words,
(Is this really absurd?),
Those hands hold his meaning of life. 

A baby’s small fingers
That so love to linger
Where-ever his wonder finds touch,
That soft, unscatched skin
Where his wonder begins
Will be able to tell him so much. 

The hands of first lovers,
Resting under the covers,
Emerging in blue lights of trust,
They slide down sweaty arms,
Leaving prints of love’s charms
In the gentle and soft wake of lust.

Oh the hands I have seen,
Oh the stories I’ve gleaned
From the creases and textures they hold.
From the wrinkled and scarred,
From the soft to the marred,
Each hand holds a life in its folds.