Those Loving Hands
Those loving hands stripped down
To the solid white bone
With thousands of strings making loving connections
Without them where would I be?
The soft loving hands that carefully cradled
My head in my first moments of life
The loving hands that guided me with my first steps
How could they be the same hands pinned under the museum glass?
With a gentle caress they mopped the fever from my brow
The underlying sinewy stuff underneath reached for a band-aid
And gently applied it to many a scraped knee
How could that skeletal frame so lovingly wipe the tears from my eyes?
Those loving hands have swirled thousands of peanut butter sandwiches.
They have been the sculptors of triple layer chocolate masterpieces.
And they have authored the encouragement that lifted me to new heights.
How could science dissect the meaning of that?
The dissected hand under the glass has guided me every step of the way.
When I meet her at the airport today and feel her embrace,
I don’t see the bundled wire of muscle and logic of cold science.
I feel the warmth and spiritual connection that shall never cease.