This poem is about a wonderful craft and taking life's little miracles for granted.
|Your hands, mold beautiful works of art into any pliable material.
Sandpaper roughness, gloves the skin up to the wrist.
Grains of salt on the soft surface.
Tiny crater-like formations where your fingers begin, the toughest part.
The statues and monuments look so smooth, not a single imperfection, it came from those hands. The hands that require love and only receive it by the touch of the cold clay.
Fingernails mesh perfectly into the skin, allowing their presence to be seen only by the crimson outline that pulsates for something unknown.
What would you be without those creators of everlasting possibilities.
You do not speak with words, but through art. He never gave you a voice, but he gave you those hands, something far better.
The unheard voice screams out, in horror, sadness, love, hatred and wonder on the subjects that you work on.
I have seen you cry, they were covered in a wet-gray substance, the skin wasn't showing through, the outline of your fingernails... erased.
You don't see what I see, I am only able to understand you, to sense you, when you finish a product.
They were a gift. They are often coated in paint, clay or the residue of charcoal... but I always catch a glimpse. A glimmer from a far away star on the blackest of nights.
I imagine what they would feel like on my face, if you could make me beautiful like you do the clay. Just a clump of gray matter, cold, wet, lifeless. You bring that nothingness to life, with those hands, the hands that I admire.
You are so much, though voiceless and blind to your creations, I envy that bravery which illustrates through your labor.
I thirst for your ability,
For your courage,
For your hands,