Lips speak of love, but hands show it.
Dry, wrinkled fingertips smelling slightly of something unnatural put away the final dishes at dinnertime. Soft, warm hands charged with standing hairs on the back fold through clean clothes on the weekend. Ice-cold hands, made so in a moment by the first touch of others, hold still against the sudden chill, waiting for warmth.
Lips will say what they may. Hands have no need of words. They have no way of hiding their truth--for better or worse. Their place is one of action, not proclaiming right or wrong nor defending either.
Hands are meant for more. The full grip of their purpose often goes unnoticed, just as it should. Hands are not made to be noticed, admired, considered--but to feel. And when they do all they do just as it should be done, words fail anyway. Words lose their hold, one they never truly knew.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Gripped
Lips speak of love, but hands show it.
Dry, wrinkled fingertips smelling slightly of something unnatural put away the final dishes at dinnertime. Soft, warm hands charged with standing hairs on the back fold through clean clothes on the weekend. Ice-cold hands, made so in a moment by the first touch of others, hold still against the sudden chill, waiting for warmth.
Lips will say what they may. Hands have no need of words. They have no way of hiding their truth--for better or worse. Their place is one of action, not proclaiming right or wrong nor defending either.
Hands are meant for more. The full grip of their purpose often goes unnoticed, just as it should. Hands are not made to be noticed, admired, considered--but to feel. And when they do all they do just as it should be done, words fail anyway. Words lose their hold, one they never truly knew.
Dry, wrinkled fingertips smelling slightly of something unnatural put away the final dishes at dinnertime. Soft, warm hands charged with standing hairs on the back fold through clean clothes on the weekend. Ice-cold hands, made so in a moment by the first touch of others, hold still against the sudden chill, waiting for warmth.
Lips will say what they may. Hands have no need of words. They have no way of hiding their truth--for better or worse. Their place is one of action, not proclaiming right or wrong nor defending either.
Hands are meant for more. The full grip of their purpose often goes unnoticed, just as it should. Hands are not made to be noticed, admired, considered--but to feel. And when they do all they do just as it should be done, words fail anyway. Words lose their hold, one they never truly knew.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Humorous
Senses of humor are the dangdest things.
Read any ad for a dating service. Right up there with walks on the beach and candle-lit dinners comes, naturally, a good sense of humor. Everybody wants one. Everybody wants everybody else to have one. Generally, we like them.
So, then, why are the best ones so often punished? For instance, if in the far away land of hypothetical things a woman spills a giant cup of flavored water on the floor just before bedtime, one might imagine one of only two responses. One sense of humor is deployed immediately, barely containing the capacity even to consider keeping it selfward.
The other is not.
No, the other sense of humor is stifled instantly like hope or human will within an iron-fisted, communist regime. Nothing funny comes of it, and by distemper, jealousy or some other poisonous barb this sense of humor accomplishes something extraordinary.
It demands the stronger sense be silenced. It banishes laughter, persecutes joy and burns at the stake any semblance of happiness derived from the situation. So much for wanting that sense of humor, or at least for using it often. Dangdest things, they are. Dangdest things.
Read any ad for a dating service. Right up there with walks on the beach and candle-lit dinners comes, naturally, a good sense of humor. Everybody wants one. Everybody wants everybody else to have one. Generally, we like them.
So, then, why are the best ones so often punished? For instance, if in the far away land of hypothetical things a woman spills a giant cup of flavored water on the floor just before bedtime, one might imagine one of only two responses. One sense of humor is deployed immediately, barely containing the capacity even to consider keeping it selfward.
The other is not.
No, the other sense of humor is stifled instantly like hope or human will within an iron-fisted, communist regime. Nothing funny comes of it, and by distemper, jealousy or some other poisonous barb this sense of humor accomplishes something extraordinary.
It demands the stronger sense be silenced. It banishes laughter, persecutes joy and burns at the stake any semblance of happiness derived from the situation. So much for wanting that sense of humor, or at least for using it often. Dangdest things, they are. Dangdest things.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)