My hands are a reader’s hands. They hold open the covers of good books with practiced ease and no fatigue.

My hands are a poet’s hands. The right grasps the pen with skillful poise and delivers a peculiarly modern form of sanskrit only I can read. Both possess fingers that dance across keyboards with a minimum of mistakes. Unless you count thumbs on an iPhone keypad. There, the mistakes fly fast and free, with autocorrect compounding every error into unintelligble glory.

My hands are a dishwasher’s hands. One holds the plate at the perfect angle, while the other scrubs using the doby with just the required push. Both load dishes, glasses, & silverware into their appropriate locations within the dishwasher. Both wipe down the sink, stove, and counter after.

My hands are a masseuse’s hands. Rubbing down her back with subtle precision. Finding the knotted muscles, and loosening them with practiced refinement. Bringing that relief that ensures she asks for another again, and again.

My hands are a meditator’s hands. Holding the cosmic mudra in delicate balance as I breathe and let go. Over & over.

Autumn showers

blowing through the window

a cooling breeze

how I keep using them

my hands

for Tanka Poets on Site: Gerry Muse #421. Prompt for 7th September 2024 (occasional tanka prose)