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Loving the Hands
I could make a wardrobe
with tufts of wool
caught on thistle and bracken.
Lost—the scraps
I might have woven whole cloth.
"Come watch," the man says,
shearing sheep
with the precision of long practice,
fleece, removed all of a piece,
rolled in a neat bundle.
I've been so clumsy
with people who've loved me.
Straddling a ewe,
the man props its head on his foot,
leans down with clippers,
each pass across the coat a caress.
His dogs, lying nearby,
tremble at every move—as I do,
loving the hands that have learned
to gentle the life beneath them.
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