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My Hands



My Hands





These hands

With their short

Broken nails,

Ragged cuticles

Calluses and scars;

Possess such strength

That most

Will never know

Praise God.



They have:



Cradled a

Newborn child,

The hands of

The frightened and sick

The heads of the dying

Wiped tears from

Thousands of cheeks

Young and old

Off skin of every color

All races

All creeds

They have compressed

The hearts of the dying

And eased

Their last breath.

They have felt

A dying grasp slip away

And ushered an

Infant into a new day.

These hands

Are a reflection

Of everything you’ve done

And are symbol of

The work yet to come.

These hands struggled

To grasp

The biggest task of all:



Healing oneself

Comes from within

Trust in your own healing

It is all in your hands.



Leslie C Bertrand


Leslie is a retired registered nurse. Ariel Chart is her first literary credit.

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3 Comments

  1. Your profession is that of honor and compassion. Your poetry reflects that as well.

    ReplyDelete
  2. This is a beautiful reflection of a healer's hands.

    ReplyDelete