They are softer than feathers

[dahlia_moon]

Hands

I

When I fall asleep

my hands leave me.


They pick up pens

and draw creatures

with five feathers

on each wing.


The creatures multiply.

They say: "We are large

like your father's

hands."


They say: "We have

your mother's

knuckles."


I speak to them:

"If you are hands,

why don't you

touch?"


And the wings beat

the air, clapping.

They fly


high above elbows

and wrists.

They open windows

and leave


rooms.

They perch in treetops

and hide under bushes

biting


their nails. "Hands,"

I call them.

But it is fall


and all creatures

with wings

prepare to fly

South.


II

When I sleep

the shadows of my hands

come to me.


They are softer than feathers

and warm as creatures

who have been close

to the sun.


They say: "We are the giver,"

and tell of oranges

growing on trees.


They say: "We are the vessel,"

and tell of journeys

through water.


They say: "We are the cup."


And I stir in my sleep.

Hands pull triggers

and cut

trees. But


the shadows of my hands

tuck their heads

under wings

waiting

for morning,


when I will wake

braiding


three strands of hair

into one

Siv Cedering

From: www.poets.org