Below is a poem with the theme of my use of hands,
which some may think is archaic in this current era of technology:
My Hands
Turning
weathered pages of a centuries old book,
my fingers touch a piece of history
for this page was once turned by gloved fingertips
of a lady sitting by candlelight on a blue velvet chair
her cotton dress, flowing around covered ankles.
Strumming
the strings of a vibrating harp, melodic echoes, soothe
the mind of my precious dog who lives to protect me
love me, comfort me. It's the least I can do for her.
Kneading
dough that clings to each finger until I apply
one more dash of flour to create
the soft ball that will miraculously rise
to form into the sweet, aromatic sustenance of life:
bread, feeding my family and friends.
Threading
a needle with just the right length and colour
of waxed cotton,
slowly I turn remnant pieces of cloth
into a quilted memory to comfort
through the warmth of artistry and pragmatism.
Digging
into rich, brown soil I plant a seed
water, nurture, protect until one day it grows
into a savory food, the source of my love's smile.
Holding
an extended hand, I feel the presence
of a life force, strength, our fingertips, touching
then brushing the tear from a child's eye
warm today, cold tomorrow
fond memory of the gentleness.
Praying
palm against palm, I sing a song
of praise.
Humbly,
I give thanks to my Lord
knowing His Love as undying, strengthening,
guiding my every step as I fulfill His Purpose for me.
Praying
palm against palm, I sing a song
of praise.
Humbly,
I give thanks to my Lord
knowing His Love as undying, strengthening,
guiding my every step as I fulfill His Purpose for me.
Loving
from hand to heart.
© Jeanne I. Lakatos
