even though all my skin is dry,
it’s the hands that have it worst
by the end of the day they strain
against the tightness of invisible gloves
when I rub them together it makes
white noise like the sound inside a shell
when I study them in the light I see all the little lines made more obvious in their thirst
they look like tree bark, creek banks, snake skin,
fish scales, desert sands, bat wings, and cave walls
in my fingerprints, I see swirling storms as seen from space, whirlpools, and every kind of eye
when I lotion my hands I hug one with the other
in grateful prayer for the gift
of such lovely expansive togetherness
and my ability to perceive it
3 thoughts on "Dry Hands"
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You took one of my least favorite feelings and made it beautiful. Thank you.
I like this poem A well-examined and expressed vision