The Hands of Love

In the shadows of twilight,
 She looked at her hand,
 Circling at the stem of her glass,
 Her fingers not tall and slender,
 Unlike the elegant ones staring
 From glossy sheets,
 Her palms small,
 Etched with curvy fate lines,
 Fingers partitioned in small
 Rectangles,
 Her nails short and square,
 Without a shimmery paint.
 
 She loved the mole
 Positioned at the back of her hand,
 And the way her hand looked
 When she held a pen,
 As she spilled poetry on paper,
 She loved inhaling
 The handful of fragrant petals
 cupped in her palms,
 Or the way her hands
 Curled in a prayer,
 Her tender touch
 Brightening the lives of people
 Around her,
 The brushing of tears
 From the cheeks of her loved ones,
 Placing a hand
 Over her heart
 In humble thankfulness
 And love,

Eager for warm handshakes,
 A firm hand over hers
 In reassurance,
 Always curious
 To know her destiny
 Engraved on her palms,
 Often tracing those lines dreamily,
 Speculating the meaning
 Of each line.
 Her hands combing through her
 Lock of waves
 On a wind-swept night,
 The very same hands that
 Once cradled her babies
 And rocked them to slumber.
 The color of love
 Seeping through her hands,
 Leaving hand-prints of memories
 At every stage of life,
 They are the hands of
 Warmth and kindness,
 The hands of ardent love.
 
 © Sakina S. Dossaji