The storm by its nature wants to move on, and the tree’s grace is that it has no hands. –Mark Nepo, “The Book of Awakening”
Oh hands, you have served me,
have held the slender brush
and slowly stroked the paint
to the wood. You have held
the pen and guided it across
the white emptiness, tracing
the cursive flight of thought.
You have stroked the hair
of the sleepless child and
smoothed the veins in the hands
of the grandmothers. You
have kneaded the bread
to form lattices in the gluten
and pulled endless bindweed
from the garden. Oh hands,
you were of course made
for grasping. To hold the rope
as the body hangs above
the canyon floor. To hold
the oars as the boat moves
through the white chaos of wave.
Oh clutching, oh grappling,
oh reaching ones. Let go,
say the teachers, let go
says the head, but hands,
humble hands, you are only
doing what you were made to do.
The hands are “painted” with such casual business, such plain but beautiful daily work. That’s nice. Then you create a more driving force beginning with
“Oh hands,
you were of course made
for grasping. To hold the rope…”
which evoke more desperate hands (yes, and hearts), which again I like tremendously, as these activities up the stakes. But when you say
“Let go,
say the teachers, let go …”
I’m caught off guard, as I’ve just been hanging on for sheer life! What sort of teachers are these? I’m sure you mean them more generally, as in life, but the juxtaposition of those previous lines to the teacher line sets up an odd leap for me. I think you need some sort of quick transition between “oh reaching ones. Let go,” Not sure what to suggest, but it need not be much, just of softening to lead toward the let go. Then that fine ending line will sing.