Hands / Las Manos

A person’s hands tell one’s story, a tangled web of oceans and deserts.  And love flows through the delicate outline of the fingers on its way to the heart where it is finally home.

Las manos de una persona cuentan la historia de ésta, un telaraña enredado de océanos y desiertos.  Y el amor fluye a través del contorno delicado de los dedos camino al corazón donde finalmente encuentra su hogar.

 

ONE MORE TIME

by Mark Nepo

When willful, we think


that truth moves from 


our head to our heart 


to our hands.

But bent by life, 


it becomes clear that 


love moves the other way: 


from our hands to our 
heart to our head.

Ask the burn survivor 


with no hands who dreams 


of chopping peppers and 


onions on a spring day.

Or the eighty-year-old jazz 


man who loses his hands 
in a fog.

He can feel them 


but no longer entice them 


to their magic.

Or the thousand-year-old 


Buddha with no arms 


whose empty eyes will 


not stop bowing to the 


unseeable center.

Truth flows from us, 


or so we think, only 


to be thrown back 


as a surf of love.

Ask the aging painter 


with a brush taped to his 


crippled hand—wanting, 


needing to praise it all 


one more time.

Image

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