I’m so hard on my body but ok with my hands
My eyes see they’re flawed but my head understands
I don’t worry they’re aged or if they show years
I know they’ve absorbed a thousand dried tears
They show my frailty in long-bitten nails
Share the scars from those times I chose heads but got tails
They have the signs of my work in the kitchen
They bear the lines of a life that’s been lived in
The finders of every lost precious stuffed teddy
Hair brushers, night soothers and butterers of spaghetti
My nails are more likely to brandish the soil
Of planting and weeding, the gardener’s toil
They’ve no manicure, and no cuticle trim
No filler, no tips, and no paraffin
Purveyors of words that my lips can’t expel
Stained with ink, keyboard-calloused, they backspace, misspell
The transmitters of heart and the agents of brain
The symbols of peace, the easers of pain
A gypsy would find my palms’ tales confusing
Won’t find fortune or fame, but the lifeline’s amusing
Creative conjurings 