My two hands.
where the plains suck out of juice from underground, they move at the taunting whisper of my heart.
My left hand grapples with cold fire; the other spreads a mattress for the whining night.
They don’t share similar reasons but perfectly woven for the same aims. Service.
At times the right hand will reach to the left and the other closes to the other end. It’s funny how they work in criss-cross only to fulfill the tune of need through grace.
While they write both in cursive and plain letters they carry a bond beyond pleasure and necessity. A page filled not of adversary but of belongingness and an anthology.
When the waves whistle for an invite under the drama of the night, my two hands quickly swerve to see who are in need of light.
They blissfully dance and orchestrate joyful melodies like that of a classical delight. Often they hung loosely on my body but think firmly at the mandate of my brain.
My two hands out of a habit of diplomacy, they dress themselves with accessories of gemstones marked by compassion and beads for the humanistic soul.
Sometimes people laugh at them for oftentimes they’re seen unclean, naked and bare from the days of hard work and pain.
My two hands can cook you a meal with tenderness. They can set the table for the meals of the day even serve you your afternoon tea. They can sew your buttons on a busy day especially when you’re anxious to make your day. They can wipe your tears good for seven days with an infinite warranty. They can play like a dog and a rabbit most on your dimmed walls at night. They can help you stand without your crutches so you can conquer the world without the slightest fright. They can take care of you when you’re weary and empty. They can give you warmth and security.
My two hands have chaffed skin and dried fingernails because they toil the land better than the spade. They are calloused and wrought but they’re not blind for you and me.
My two hands are not heroes but they act like they have seen and saved a hero.
A hero in
These are my two hands.