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.
