The Hands Of Rose

The hands of Rose
Open, close,
Twist and snap,
Count, put back,
Seal, restack,
Slap that strap,
Tip, weigh, ship,
Wave! Clap!
Rest on hips.

Slender, dark brown outside,
Pink brown in the palms,
Tender, nails purple, gold, or silver,
Gold-ringed—-bright-haloed grasp!

The hands of rose are:
Swift as birds,
Light as snowflakes,
Gentle as joy.

And competent and sure and sharp they are,
Turning the saddles,
Pushing the buttons,
Dancing all day.

Tapering long fingers go toe to toe,
Bend, kick, straighten, stride just so,
Leap for a pencil, write down a lot,
Bags all ripe bulging, none forgot.

The hands of Rose are:
Graceful as wind,
Soft as sunbeams,
Cool as night.

And gathering, setting, filling the bodies,
Dropping the pins in, pounding the caps,
Or pulling the pipe down, welding the plastic,
Repeating it evenly, expert, fantastic,

The hands of rose are:
Gladder than sparrows,
Calm as her lips are,
Quick as her eyebrows,
Atop of their time.

They touched me once in laughing cheer;
Smile of beauty led them, eyes light, clear.
No wasted motion there, for I, too,
Felt put together exactly right.

The Touch passes, moves on to other things to do,
Make true, instill Rose’ spirit into;
Fill up boxes, load up trucks,
Cram, jam, sail the highway,
Vessel the world!

Sell it goods,
Buy some back;
Count up dough,
Stack on stack.
Fold it in,
Press with lips;
Hold it firm,
Rest on hips.

Nothing better anyone knows than:
A day’s work done,
Man’s thoughts in close,
The hands of Rose.

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