There’s acrylic paint in the creases of skin covering my fingers’ joints,
and the scars of oven burns from baking bread next to them.
Paper cuts can be seen across the pads of my fingertips,
and gardening soil might be found under my fingernails.
Fingernails – on the left hand short, on the right hand a little longer,
so I can play my guitar whenever I feel like it,
and traces of correction fluid in the corners.
There are tiny scars of long gone playground adventures in between the freckles,
and notes to myself written in smeared ink on the back of my hand.
Sometimes there will be scratches obtained from brambles,
or streaks of green from touching flowers and foliage on my way.
On other days, stains of brownish herbal ointment creeping up from my wrist,
a painting to soothe the tendons sore from writing and playing.
These are no princess hands, but the hands of an art living, book breathing creature, longing for primordial freedom and touching the world with flesh, blood, and soul.