Hands
I love to sit and watch wrists
like stumps of trees with
knotty, rooty fingers bent
and formed from forming
a hundred-thousand bread doughs
rolling an infinity of perfect-thin
sugar cookies cut
into shapes of lambs
of bells of holly leaves
Hands
forever cupped by a lifetime
of dipping out a cup of drink
for man and creature kind
pouring herself out
through fingers long
worn smooth by Rosary beads
"Cold hands but a warm heart" - she says
holding on to mine she ask if
I am from Alaska.  "No but
on my back I'll take you there" and
a "lumpie" I am named while
her hand kneads and forms my own
like a fresh batch of dough
and I can feel her
Heart
carried in her palm