Hands

Not willowy
or reminiscent
of sunrises,
not typical
lady's hands
garnished with
feisty colours
on fingertips.

Carpenter's hands
sculptor's clay molding
from mud to bands.
They have no particular hour
of awakening.
The morning does little
to make them tingle,
yes,
tingle
they must.
Nighttime is perfect
to raise a requiem.
We sing together
in perfect raw harmony
these ten digits of mine.

You may not like the sound.
It may be din to you.
This cacophony
is the birth
of activity.
They seldom clap
to announce their
arrival.
Hence,
no garlands
are brought out
and no
rings laid fresh.
Could diamonds
make them pretty?
Could diamonds
ornament a
block of wood,
a bump of clay
that is drying in the sun?
If yes,
then yes.

This was written some years ago.