HANDS
The rock on which I stand
is solid
built by soft mulatto hands
strong supple hands
that knead the bread
and tie the knots
and smooth the hair
hands raised up to sky above
and spread out fingers in easy love
hands that clasp in earnest heat
at stones stands
while all weep
hands that paint
my mood arousing
the ire of my groove
hands that cradle
my delicate need
for peace
to be known
as real.
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