take a look at these hands

long slender fingers
as a mother strokes the face
of her angel to sleep

or calloused hands
rough and strong from days
of fruitless labor

a young woman’s hand
tossed casually that drapes
across her lover’s arm

and the soiled hand
of a homeless man begging his daily
crust of bread

two old hands
clasped tight in anguished prayer
by a hospital bed

or another fist
clenched white and raised
in anger again

so many hands
pass between us and each made
of clay

and now just
these two hands remain —
with nothing left to say.