Hands

Looking down at these hands of mine
I see calluses rimmed with dirt dotting their landscapes,
cuts and scabs joining my mountainous knuckles to the valleys in the topography of my palms,
and vast clearing of exposed flesh encircling my nails.

I see bloodied skin dangling from my right pointer finger from the time it got too cozy between the edge of a pick axe and a tree trunk.
I see the blister on the section of palm below my thumb that had been nibbled on by a curious, young lamb
I see layers of dirt coating the entire surface of my hands despite the vigorous scrubbing I gave them in the sink AND shower.

But I also see
these hands are not really mine.

These hands are guides to the shovel and pick-axe as they explore the Earth in search of roots to excavate
or a home for Malanga seedlings,
a fence post,
or even the pigs.

These hands are translators.
They speak praise through belly scratches to Jenn the border collie.
They speak the ways of the world to Clark, the young stallion,
as they rub above his soulful eyes,
swat at his wandering mouth when it grabs hold of my belt or shoelaces,
and then immediately return to his forehead to remind him my love still prevails.

These hands are nourishers
as they scoop grain for the sheep,
clear the soil surrounding the tomatoes,
and prune the cacao trees to allow
and encourage growth.

These hands carry my connection to the Earth
through the dirt perpetually caught under my nails
to the memory of grasping handfuls of rich soil teaming with life
or of gathering an earthworm in their cavernous depths
to save it from the probing point of a shovel.

Looking down, I see these hands are not really mine.
Instead, they are a gift from my experiences,
a map detailing the schools of love and labor they’ve underwent,
each night changing to reflect the lessons of that day,
and each day yearning for and being taught more and more.