An Ode To My Hands

dancers of my soul

These hands,
dancers of my soul,
moving in rhythm with the wind,
the breath, the unspoken longing of the world.

They began before memory -
perhaps curled around the hand of my twin
in the dark sea of the womb,
learning already
that life comes through connection.

And then searching -
always searching -
for the hand of my mother,
for warmth, for milk, for safety,
for the soft proof
that I belonged here.

They have carried me through -
worn smooth by work,
creased by time,
etched with the stories of all I have touched.

They have dug the first shovel of soil
for my father’s garden,
coaxing green from the earth,
pressing seeds deep into the promise of tomorrow.

They have turned pages,
words spilling like water,
poems unfurling beneath my fingers
as if they had been waiting there all along.

And now, nearing seventy-five,
they still ache to create.
Paint slips beneath my nails,
blue, ochre, crimson,
small stains of devotion
I no longer bother to scrub away.

These same fingers
tap against the keys each morning,
summoning poems from silence,
typing my longings, my grief, my wonder
into the glowing dark.

They have held the camera,
partnering with my eyes,
capturing light where it tried to hide,
saving the fleeting moments -
a child’s laughter,
a storm rolling in,
the last glance before goodbye.

They have pressed together in prayer,
first forced, stiff in the pews of Catholic school,
a lesson in obedience,
but later, in reverence -
palms open, lifted to the sky,
knowing now that real prayer
is the act of being fully here.

They have known the joy of sex and sensuality,
the slow tracing of skin,
the spark of touch,
the quiet hum of knowing.

They have known the comfort of holding hands with another,
the steady, wordless promise:
I am here. I am with you.

They have picked flowers,
pressed petals between pages,
held money, given it away,
felt the weight of abundance and the ache of lack.

They have clutched worry, released hope,
waved farewell to what could not stay,
welcomed what arrived in its place.

They have held hands that trembled -
my father’s as he slipped between worlds;
an unknown man’s in a hospital bed,
grasping, searching for something
only presence could give.

And my hands answered.
They did not turn away.
They only whispered: I am here.

They have cut and combed my children’s hair,
wiped tears and flour from my apron,
lifted bread from the oven,
offered softness when the world was hard.

They have sported painted nails,
a call to beauty,
rings stacked like stories,
each a memory, a promise,
a wild, defiant declaration:
I am here, I am still becoming.

They have lifted,
raised high in celebration,
in defiance, in devotion!
to joy, to sorrow, to love, to life.

And when they are still,
when they rest in the quiet hush of dusk,
may they know they were never idle,
never wasted, never unseen.

They held what mattered.
They let go when it was time.

And in between,
they carried love,
they carried life,
they carried me home.

Love, Jayne