What good are big hands,
if not to use them for love?
To play perfect octaves with,
to craft sculptures and pottery with,
To work saplings into the soil with,
to toil and create and wait with,
But, do you see,
the biggest hands must belong to a Mother;
in them she holds entire worlds.
When she wraps her fingers around
her child's tiniest, most fragile dreams,
there is absolutely no safer place;
fingertips for blotting out tears,
palms for feverish foreheads,
and unfailing strength,
and constant comfort,
always, a home to return to--
To have palms open skyward,
ready to catch the burdens
of a family, of a life--
Here they are,
in front of me, do you see?
My two hands ready to receive,
outstretched, unfolded,
shaken, spun, and wrung dry,
yet tragically hanging on
absent marriage lines.
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