I Weave my Hands

I weave my hands and fingers in dedication
To those already come and gone
And in anticipation of those not yet here

I openly welcome with a welcome hand
Beckoning forth as to bring all closer

I push away lightly fingertips dancing carelessly
On the ballroom floor of air
The fingers do not threaten as they rumba and tango about
But they do keep their own distance a private dance for lovers

Impassioned by speech my hands gesticulate
Like my father’s clean red hands – like my mother’s wrinkled white hands
Like a four-pound bullhead on your line on Memorial Day weekend

I weave my hands and fingers carefully – thoughtfully
each expression a work of art – each interchanging movement graceful

I put my weary head in my sturdy palm
And my palm never gives in
My palm holds strong and never abandons ship
When my palm finally begins to give in
And when I have stopped my fingers and hands from weaving
I put them to rest between my ear and my pillow
I put them to rest between my lover’s legs

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