Hands,

heels to full fingertips,

to feel, what to feel? How

to feel?

The small, long cracks in the hands—

the same cracked hands that rub tired eyes

and brush warm cheeks.

Palms,

with expressions like a living person,

able to be read,

every line,

wrinkle,

scrape,

cut,

and callus,

tell the heartfelt and broken story.

For all the tears they wiped when they grew tired,

for all the fires they touched when warned not to,

for all the cocoa butter they rubbed when dried out from the sun,

for all the skies they painted when there weren’t any brushes,

for all the hot summer pavement they felt when ordered to not run barefoot,

for all the bruises they endured when the bootstraps from the bulky societal boots

just

didn’t work right.

The works of the hands,

the works of the Palms,

carrying THEM through time

from place to place.

And that,

that is the magic and beauty of THEIR

Cracked Hands and Purple Palms.