Finger painting

My hands that I use to write this poem

Are not the same as my hands that

wipe away tears.

My hands that open a new door

Are not the same as my hands hat

close the old one.

My hands as I place them atop still water,

As though my glory holds me from plunging down.

My hands that feed myself,

that feed others.

My hands that grasp those of my beloved.

My hands that touch – feeling.

My hands that paint a picture

upon a blank canvas – my canvas

filled with words.

My hands – that carry fingers – my fingers

for finger painting.