Tuesday, April 23, 2019

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 15

So, for those who know me, I like to make things out of wood.  I would not go as far as to say I'm a carpenter, though that is certainly something I can do.  No, I deal with more of the artisan side of things - along with the occasional piece of furniture.  It's fun, it relaxes me, and keeps me out of trouble...except for those occasional slips of the chisel that result in a frantic run to the bathroom to wash and bandage a fresh would in one or more of my fingers.  Oddly,my hands bear few visible scars.  I have no idea how that has happened, but it has.  I guess my cuts just don't go very deep, but that is ok, really!  In any case, sometimes I stare at my hands and wonder about them and all the various things that have happened to them over the years.

Hands

i remember when they used to be calloused,
dirty and more brown,
used for everything,
and they were tougher,
more agile,
but less skilled.

and i wonder if that is the price of the skill -
do we become softer, cleaner,
more apt to do thing which keep us this way?
the more we know,
the more we can do,
the more we strive to get away from the hands that brought us where we are.

Thanks for reading,

Me

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