These Hands

Imagine If I were to reach to you And found my hands were gone Nothing, nothing I could do Would complete the intended bond Imagine Michelangelo sculpting David Painting the Sistine chapel’s dome Recording his artistic genius In the great halls of Rome Imagine life without these hands A mind with naught to mold Naught to guide the woven strands And cloak me from the cold Imagine Me sending a loving thought softly through a touch the warmth the pleasure brought just by feeling such Imagine Never the grasp of friendship Not the warmth there could be Clasping another’s in your grip Yes my hands, they are me