What your hands held
instead of jars;
juice dripping
through fingers
held apart.

Hands soft from surf,
freeing doves
from dollars
and waving to father.

Lathe fingers
fought sunshine
winning for plants
on shelves below.

New hands
spread the seed
coaxing birds
to your stoop.

I walk this path
obsessed with
cool red loam
and palm pressed walls.