I am waiting for hands

that have known a hard day’s work

whether it be tending the earth

or fitting to the curve of a razor blade.

I am waiting for hands

stained with paint, ink, clay,

or blood that found its way

from wrist to finger tips.

I am waiting for hands

that will hold mine

even though touch is a flame

dry ice

spikes

light

so much light…

I am waiting for hands

that are content with just

holding

not groping.

I am waiting for hands

that dance, clap, snap

rejoice

at the sound of my voice

hands that recognize that

I always have a choice

and it is mine to make.

I am waiting for hands

that when finally wrapping 

around mine,

they will apologize

for making me wait

in the first place.