These Hands

Another poem about sculptress Nancy Elizabeth Prophet and her remarkable talented hands.

_______________

Old and tired

but so alive

feeling

holding

creating

things I claim

as mine.

The clay

spins.

The day

passes by.

I used my

hands to

form and mold

that which is

pleasant to

my eye.

Some hug

trees

while others

smoke

which is

their norm.

I create,

spin my wheel

mold the

form

of something

from my

minds eye

that speaks

to me

once kilned

and warm.

No other

part of me

can speak

so clearly,

as my fingers,

each of which

I love so dearly.

______________

Thank you for reading! - Sam