POEM by ULRICH WENDT

My Hands


Having lived long enough, I look forward to death.
I long for the graceful slide past the hectoring day.
Night on night, I long for the pall.

But my hands. My hands curve.

I have begun to compose the lines of my face
into lines of stillness and comfort,
grateful for my warm bed of soft earth.

But my hands. They are already curving themselves,
fiercely eager to grasp what they find.
Be it clay, they will mould it into a bowl or a jar.
Be it sand, they will shape it for the casting of strong metal.
Be it stone, they will hold it this way or that.

They will place one stone upon the other,
they will build a wall and a gate in the wall.
They will make the gate to swing inward and say
“welcome, come to me!”
And if none should come, they will swing the gate outward
and compel me through it, back into the world.