Hands
If your hands were sand dunes they would be exquisite.
Sepia browns, wrinkles and lines,
maps of something unknown.
If your hands could talk, what stories would they tell?
Of love, grief, pain?
Ripples, patterns of wind and water
constantly changing and eroding,
thousands of crevices
stretched across time.
Hands the color of Tuscon
and old sage,
Saddle tan
and memories of gold.
