her hands

I look at my hands.

They look nothing like my mothers hands.

Hers were small and china cup delicate
though powerful enough to create our universe.

Her fingers, slim and incandescent, resolving into perfect oval nails.
She scoffed and dismissed those fingers as not enough,
lacking the reach for that next ivory key
reserved for the true concert pianist.

That not good enough created all the sounds of my childhood-
Church hymns,
Schubert and Haydn,
tin pan alley,
Lennon and McCartney,

I miss her strong hands, pale and translucent,
I miss my mother’s hands holding my hands.

I wish I remembered where I read it

its an odd phrase
one that makes you wonder
how the novelist would even conceive of the idea
and I wish I could remember where I read it
‘I would know your hands
in a bucket full of hands’
it caught me off guard
so weird
and kinda distasteful
how could an editor let that phrase go by
or was it debated and argued over
for days on end

but I know
that feeling
it was meant to convey

I would know your hands
in a bucket full of hands

August’s Dust

you seem to be patient with me
and mostly kind
the days linger and hands move slowly
from dawns light tick tocking till dusk
august’s dust never formed
and pulled by tides
or man
the rains fell and washed
all our spring sins away
hands washed clean
rinsed thoroughly with downpours
and tarnished clouds
held still by thunder
or is it your hands held the thunder
and then the rains came
I notice your hands
and the clock face
as it tick tocks to autumn’s storms
and mostly kind