These two hands are both my boundaries and my open gate
raised up to signify life and catch my breath, and as I ponder
they take the pen to write, dipping sotto voce ink,
and hearing hidden passion with sentient finger tips.
How these two friends push and press and work together,
folding over dough in pas des deux parenthesis,
gathering to cup a warming brew or comb through hair,
iced blue in deep snow pockets, in summer – full red and ripe.
Comfortable in prayer, who would judge these anguished two
for uncommon deviation; a desperate grab in tightened times?
Ignited in knuckled protest, closing angry fists as if to fight?
Look down then to your left and to your right.
My industrious two return to sew and knit and thread
and wrap and cut and spread and meet and reassure
and weave between expression and caress.
And when you go they’ll wave and wipe, go mix a cake.
Each day they pick and pour and weigh, these two hands.
In doubt they shift and shy, but regrouping bear me up,
my loyal retainers, remaining after fair has faded,
brushing ebb and flow as time is plucked and dropped.