Hands

my hands are not manicured

neither are they manly

they are worked...and worked...and

at times much overworked;

roughened

scraped

cut burned bumped because

there is not another pair in sight or in house.

my hands are not manicured

polish doesn’t play well with

dirt...or tools...or demolition

nor with plumbing leaks or torn shingles;

blown

ripped

smashed when

precariously attached tree limbs crash down on them.

hands that aren’t manicured gather limbs

and shingles and

other people’s trash when it

relocates itself onto my modest plot;

they gather and carry

unwanted discarded decomposing

things to the place where

such things, no longer useful things, belong.

hands that aren’t manicured hurt

but they don’t stop can’t stop

there is so much to do...so much to feel

to give that comes through hands;

gentle sensitive yet strong hands

sporting scars of wear and war

but also full of memories...

of what it feels like to touch.