These Hands

These hands of mine,
They write.
They draw.
They are the hands that wash my face after a sleepless night.
They are the hands that turn the wheel to head somewhere.
These hands of mine, they hug, embrace.
They touch, they feel.
They pinch. They slap.
These hands of mine do push-ups. 
They wave hello, or wave a flag.
These hands pray.
They sit still in meditation.
They point a finger when upset.
These hands of mine get manicured, get pampered, get loved. 
These are hands that hold signs and preach for justice.
These are hands that weave, and knit, and sew. 
These are hands that make, and these are hands that break. 
They are hands that clap, and they are hands that cheer.
They are hands that choke, and hands that punch.
These hands of mine hold babies, they pat kittens.
These hands get hot, get sweaty. 
These hands tickle. And get tickled. 
These hands sculpt my life.
They shake other hands, they pat other backs, they feel other bodies.
These hands squeeze out water when I wash my laundry in the tub.
These hands hold the phone that gives me an escape.
These hands hold the phone that gives me a connection.
These hands bake, and cook, and eat. 
These hands nourish. These hands help. These hands wonder. 
These hands are ready, like soldiers, ready for anything and loyal to a T. 
These hands get tired. They get sore. They yearn for lotion, for calm, for peace. 
These hands play the piano, they play guitar.
They seal letters, the open letters.
They open doors, and they close them.

These hands of mine do it all. 
The hands that make, are the hands that break.

Such is the way of the world.