Sometimes I hold my own hands
and they feel so small
tiny as an infant’s
so tiny and so fragile

And yet they feel so old
so ancient
full of deep secrets
and unspoken fears
slender bones of unknowable strength
covered in a fine veil
of such vulnerable flesh

These hands have penned many words
including the ones you read here
They have played the music
which begs to be heard
music which writes itself of thin air
a spirit which teaches my fingers
songs my fingers know not

These hands are an extension
of my very heart
These hands ache for others to hold
These hands want to give
but find themselves empty after so many years
These hands now long so dearly to be filled
but they do not know how to receive

I am the small fragile hands
of an impossibly large spirit
so strong and so beautiful
that it frightens me
because these hands hold the weight
of that which is unseen
eternal divinity