my hands,
from which i divine with.
to caress a glossy deck
and trust that they know when to pull a sword or a cup. 
palms up in my lap during quiet morning musings, 
to invite stillness and knowing into my days.

my hands, 
from which i service with. 
to grip a mango, orange, peach, and intuit its ripeness,
to piercing it open and letting the sticky juice run between my fingers. 

my hands,
from which i receive the world with
the first point of contact with a stranger, 
to the last touch from a loved one,
to every supple and bristly touch in between. 

my hands,
from which i write with. 
not a single thought comes into this realm without the work of my hands,
my passions extended into reality through them. 

they’re the diviner, the servicer, the receiver, the messenger,
the extensions of my life force.