Delicate,

Intricate

Hands

The kind of hands

That

When alone

Ponder

What they’re going to create

Next

All on their own

Hand-self

She had those hands

Veins

blue ridges

Mountains of captivating curiosity

Awaiting an avid climber

to

Visit

Finger tips

Sensor pads

Of

wonderment

Explaining to her hands

In words

Made no sense

Unless they came

From the point

Of a pencil

Or

The softness

Bristling from

Wooded-brush

Transforming vision

Into visions

Power surged

In them

Hydroelectric

Fueled

As if

By rushing snowmelt

Of ten thousand generations

Teachers

Artists

Ancestors

Artists hands

She had

Healers hands

Hands that found

the crevices

Because they so

clearly

Understood

The

Texture

Of

Mountains