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.