These hands with their blue-green veins
that snake like lace toward blushing knuckles,
stretching to reveal
baby dimples.

These hands with the palm reader lines
surging upwards with vitality,
landing on half-moons that
disappear when pressed.

These hands with the criss-cross cracks in sunlight,
the glistening thumbprint residue,
middle finger leaning awkwardly to the
left.

These endless hands with their tapping,
stroking, holding,
writing, waving, pointing,
scratching, smoothing,
grasping.

These hands curl inward with anxiety,
unfurl to receive wisdom
soften to cherish with.