Ode to my Hands by Aaron Kiousis
I reached out and feel
soft, hard, cold, wet, warm to burly hot.
With them, I’ve been known to heal.
With one of them I would be not.
They help me to appreciate and love life.
Take what’s upstairs and creases it
into the physical plane.
All for the sake of keeping me sane.
Covered in scars, you moved in time
lined with small rivers of blood,
you crock there staring distastefully at me.
Donned with inseparable digits
with two that are midgets.
You help me keep a hold on this life.
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