These hands articulate soft speech. Moving slowly over shape and winding into clay. I appreciate the sensations, the pads on tips and the sweet harmony in movement. I can create; expansions fold outward from my skin and beckon spirit from all and every. Long spears of magic bending and curling into themselves. I kiss each delicate diamond of skin connection because they allow continuation of all the activities I love, writing, drawing, touching. The same hands as my mother, breathed deep with life with elaborate histories and life time of travels. Hold on tightly, let go lightly. These hands are metaphoric and also physical, calloused with the warp of time. I admire the grooves, the lines that deepen, force veins around, boney protrusion kissing surface, breaking smooth and pulsing with blue veins over tendon stretches. These hands are mine, moving in front of me, catching me in a fall, holding to my lover, giving and taking. Reaching to remember, throughout my day to cup each hand with the other and feel the love that emanates from each fine figure.