Pink faced, and warm, I stand at the kitchen counter
rubbing flour and butter briskly
through my fingers into a large mixing bowl...
Apples are already peeled and sliced, that lay
like petals, pale green, in the pie plate, waiting for a crumbled topping
I know they are mine, these hands, I see, deftly working...
So skilled, they are, that even I am amazed,....
Even before my own eyes, there is a moment, I watch, from outside myself
Yes these hands are mine... proven by the swirls and the valleys
as I when I'm asked to write my own name,...
as when I scribbled this new recipe, in a familiar, weary yellow notebook
Yet, as if I were wearing gloves,
my hands seem to live inside the skin of others...
I watch their motion and have no control of every small detail,
Rote tasks, of which I have seen before
No hand has held the amber weight of sun
or tugged in summer wind, but silently
some root has crooked a finger into the flour,
intent to foster a long connection, some ancient comfort,
a deep knowing, of heart and bone, of mind, and soul
that assures me, I never will stand alone, with flour on my hands
I will always have centuries at my elbow
Submitted for Nette's Contest: With These Hands
Carrie Richards 12/21/13