“It is life’s work to recognize the mystery of the obvious”
These hands of mine,
never flinching from a task,
familiar as sunshine and the purring of the cat,
always before my eyes,
but in a blur of inattention,
a group noun like rain or ocean
not crystal raindrops,
or perfectly curled waves.
Only when you take them in your own,
strong-fingered, violinist, carpenter’s hands,
that make magic from wires and switches,
planks of wood,
bolt battleship-sturdy pipes,
and tease music to make the heart sob,
do I know what the maker of hands intended.