Garden-Loving, Ink-Stained Hands

I have garden loving hands. Painters hands. A poet's hands. Ink-stained, acrylic paint splotches, dirt under my broken and split fingernails. Here I sit, observing today's experiences on my hands. They tell the story as well as anything else could. I have smudges of ink, and the entire side next to my left pinkie is saturated with beige and red paint. I see other women's hands. Their nails are "done". Their nails are painted, glossy, perfect. I laugh at the idea of having that kind of hand, wondering what kind of fun they could have, without dirt under their nails. There is plenty of dirt under mine; I can barely walk past a plant without doing something to it. I have gardener's hands. Poet's hands. Artist's hands. My diary is in my hands. Come hither and see.