These rude things, slightly wrinkled, weather chafed, and odd-spotted;
Once I thought they could caress the fevered, paint possibility, mend cares;
Banged and injured, broken and healed, they mirrored the struggles of others'; others' hands and hollow moments, tended to all-too-briefly,
And yet.....
They seemed little enough, too slow, infuriatingly tired, impossibly inadequate, still, to my heart,
in a world where there are eyes, hands, mouths, minds.....dreams - still
Idle and ill.
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