Short poem about hands and the stories they hold.
|If you ever want to know about a person, look at their hands.
They say that eyes are the window to the soul,
But do they show you what the soul is made of?
Do they show you the paint-splattered hands of the artist?
Or the blood-splattered of the soldier?
Do they show you the scars from the hours; days; years of work?
Or the calluses from gripping something that’s not meant for you?
Eyes can hold another pairs gaze,
But can they hold a newborn child?
Hands build skyscrapers and cities and bridges.
Old hands; young hands
Engaged hands; single hands
Scarred hands; shaking hands
Giving hands; taking hands
The praying hands, the begging hands, the holding hands.
The white-knuckled fists belonging to a person barely keeping it together,
Or the lifeless hands of a person who didn’t know how.
Nobody ever talks about how significant a pair of hands are,
But if you watch them closely,
They tell a whole life story.