The Legend of My Hand
by LeeAnne Lavender
My hand changes over time,
veins mapping experience and marking
the passage of years and love and loss.
The territory sings a ballad
of touch and rain,
drops clapping, applauding each
crevice and line.
How many people have I touched with these fingers?
Do my babies remember being soothed and loved?
Loved as a laundress loves her linens
(thank you, P.K. Page and Pablo Neruda)
Loved as a sculptor loves his stone
Loved as a gardener loves her soil
My hand changes over time
and grows ivy and blossoms and