Hands

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 17, 2018

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Submitted: July 17, 2018

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A thousand little hands reaching down from their cloud.

Scrabbling at space, making noise, but not aloud.

 

No faces or tears, no hearts or emotions.

Just a thousand digits, like straw sheaves or pinions.

 

Those thousand little spindly hands, reaching down, down, down.

As if groping for a message from their old hometown.

 

Malnourished and in harms way; delightful and horrifying.

Blushing earthy gray, and a vision much less glorifying.

 

Thousand hands of no one’s making.

Thousand hands all reaching, taking.

 

Needing, yet without a notion.

Kneading, yet without a motion.

 

The trees knot cleverly.

The tree’s not all I see.


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