Hands
Earned their keep
These hands of mine
The ice princess Surveys her kingdom She seeks out her trusty steed To carry her on her journey Perhaps they will jump onto a shard of ice And float to New Orleans Or they may simply stand on shore Watching the ice burn orange
Still on the mend – coughing a lot, sleeping little, and totally out of gas. Speaking of gas, how about those prices? And if you need diesel (for the truck) and Premium (for the Mini), it’s really a killer. My raise this year is definitely not going to keep up with increases in gas, coffee…
“Forgive the dead year. Forgive yourself. What will be wants To push through your fingers.” ~ Marge Piercy, “The head of the year” Forgive yourself… Isn’t [s]he the hardest person to forgive of all? I’m still waiting for her to make amends The future is not ours to see or to make or to bend…
[WARNING! I think I sound a bit crazy sometimes, but really, do not be alarmed! My brain is just on high percolation lately and I’m letting go and letting it do it’s thing.] Free thinking Free writing Living large But not gluttonously Make more things From scratch Stop fighting my hair With expensive products This…
Canvas Stark white Untouched My horse looks dubious Perhaps there’s a reason This place lies untraveled Powder over ice? Frozen ridges to trip on? Who’s to know? He isn’t the one Who wants to find out But I ask And he moves Does he trust my judgment? While I do not? So far so good…
Okay. I’ve been rewriting this blog post all week because it keeps sounding too negative and depressing. I think a lot of what I’m thinking and feeling comes from aging and feeling all the possibilities move out of reach in so many areas of my life. It’s hardest at work, where most people are younger…
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Fantastic! These hands have earned their keep? I love that! And your photographs are stunning – as are your hands! I often think that way about my body in general – you know, that it’s earned its keep – but specifically hands? What a lovely meditation. I loved, loved, loved this and will look at my age spotted, somewhat scarred, crepe paper textured skin hands more lovingly and appreciatively after reading this.
Your hands, poem, and photos, are beautiful. (but I do know the feeling of looking at my own hands and thinking “who’s are these?”)
Lynn