William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Hands

I remember the night our first child was born, and how her hand wasn’t big enough to wrap around my finger. I remember watching my wife’s hand in its weightless caress, communicating with this new life. I remember, too, being patted on the head for my youthful idealism, which I have since learned is an acute form of common sense.

 
Hands

Imagine a world
where faces and voices
are all the same,
and people
know each other
by reaching out
and touching
their hands.

Imagine these hands
as living records
of character,
sorrow, and joy.

Some of the hands
are warm, gentle,
and forgiving,
some are scarred
and wise, a blessing.

Other hands are cold,
the kind of hands
no other hand wants
to touch, the kind
that do not want
to be touched,
that hide themselves
in pockets or pretend
they are busy with
some important,
empty task.

Imagine the moment
when hands first meet.

Imagine your hand
caressing the hand
of a stranger,
and his hand or hers
caressing yours,
and the miracle
that unfolds
when both hands
quietly yield.

Imagine the distance
two hands might travel,
the valleys and the roads,
the river beds, meadows,
and burned out woods.

Imagine the granite
of experience
as it melts and runs
like fragrant honey
down your arms,
penetrates your skin,
your heart, your mind.

Songs and Letters, February 25, 2006

Categories: Songs and Letters

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