My hands
My hands were made catching shade
When the sun peaked through the sky
They touch the trees and feel the breeze
Gravity, they do defy
They have great tales and stories
Lying between their cracks
Caressing shapes and making quakes
And many things that crack
My hands were made for mending hearts
That fall to the earth below
They plant new seeds and make new life
And watch all these things grow
This poem is about:
Me
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