it is not poetry that climbs
the trees the rocks
it is these fierce hands that grip the elements
in survival lust
it is not poetry that opens the curtains to
the bright new day
it is these joyous hands that
invite the new light in
it is not poetry that cuts the vegetables
and stirs it into soup
it is these nurturing hands that
instinctively feed my hungry body
it is not poetry that opens the piano lid
and practices hours to perfect Rachmaninoff
it is these committed hands that
keep rising and falling in harmony
it is not poetry that caresses
love into your skin
it is these passionate hands that
know how and where to soothe
it is not poetry that lifts the blanket
to cover my night's sleep
it is these loving hands
that guide me to the land of dreams
it is not poetry that deserves the adoration
it is my hands that need that
little bit of love that tells them
it is all right, you have a fine grip on things
it is not poetry that holds this pencil in fiery clasping
it is this single fervent hand
that loyally follows the impulse
of my heart