My 22 Year Old Hands

They have felt cold desert rains-
the warm air when it sifts through sage.
They’ve dipped into fresh mountain springs.

They’ve cuddled baby lambs
and comforted nervous ewes.
They’ve been blasted by dust
and ripped over bobbed wire.

My hands are simple.
My grandmother’s hands are
deep mirrors of wisdom and silence-
I want hands that inspire
after ages of life.

4 thoughts on “My 22 Year Old Hands”

  1. Because I’m not in school and I’m not in love and I’m not going to or coming from anywhere, I’ve spent the last few days rattling around the house like a broken sewing machine. All of done this week is stay up too late, drink too much coffee and think too much about constructing the future. I was thinking tonight about the past winter when I drive across the country to see the desert. I fell in love with the smooth white sand bluffs and the jagged red cliffs. It was so beautiful and sad and lonely. I was missing it so much. To occupy my sleepless mind, I was typing random words about the sweet, sad desert into a search engine when I came across your site. I just wanted to tell you that you write very beautifully. After reading a few of your entries I was sick with longing for the desert and mountains. Reading this has made me want to write beautiful things. By the way, do you read Edward Abbey? You might already be familiar with him, but if not I think you would definitely enjoy his writing.

  2. Mick, Katie, and Vernon,

    I appreciate your visits to my site and for commenting on my writings. Your thoughts and words are awesome to read. 😀


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