Hands

My hands were told to fold,

Fingers laced, palms pressed

Undistracted, for praying.

But no one saw that when my hands were folded my thoughts were flying-

No one but me and God.

I was born with a paintbrush inside my head,

Always creating,

Always moving.

Still. They said.

Keep your hands still.

Fingers tucked underneath my thighs.

But no one saw that when my hands were still my dreams were dancing.

Daydreaming.

They called it.

They tried to bring me back to earth,

Back to ground,

Back to church,

But God was in my pen that drew trees,

In the clouds that waved through window panes,

In the wind that teased my hair on the Sunday school swings.

I told God hello once.

And he flew away

But left me the gift of his feather.

I hid it in my collection of rocks and acorn tops,

My proof,

That I knew of a God that held me in branches,

Not in pulpits.

At 32, my windowsill still collects these treasures,

A pinecone,

A seashell,

The gifts of God in wild form.

Always reminding me to keep my hands dancing,

To keep my eyes looking,

My bare feet grounding,

For everywhere the grass grows and soil shifts

Is holy ground.

I watch my daughter draw with pen,

A tree,

As she sits in sunlight singing,

And I know that she is praying.

-Holly Madden

Read : Hands