all (y)our hands are intimate things to me.

a thousand times i must have seen them

and never took much notice;

now i mull over how experienced they look

how much older without being old

so adept

and i speculate, that is what hands should be,

adept and accurate

i nearly blush to think how intimate they have been

who did they touch?

whose hands never changed a nappy?

whose hands never touched intimate parts?

their own, parts of others?

which of these hands have never sliced a lemon

or made a camp bed in the desert

or picked up stones under stars?

mine have never baked a cake.

mine have never worn a ring that fits too tightly.

if you looked at my hands would you know that too?

how much comfort have you dealt?

it must have been vast.

a world of it.

and not enough. never enough.

that cannot be fair.

i look at all the hands and i am left with the hope

that they are all loved deeply - 

and held;

i hope they are held tightly.