Hands

Sometimes, I wish my hands were small.

For what a world of difference that would be–

I’d possess a delicacy and precision I will never have;

I could paint the stripes inside a flower,

The claws on a mouse;

The fragility of a spider’s gossamer web

My own hand could stitch.

I’d notice the finest details of the most minuscule things.

And see beauty where the eyes of others cannot.

I’d touch the tears at the ends of eyelashes, withheld, disallowed–

And draw them away,

And show that they are beautiful.

And catch the light ends of flyaway dreams

And tie them back to the minds they came from.

I’d tug the fraying seams of drifting, broken hearts,

And weave them back to wholeness.

I’d heal the world from the inside out,

Little, by little, by little.

Sometimes, I wish my hands were very, very small.

-Sorcha-