Delicate, slender hands, each with five fingers like thin pencils 

of varying heights, standing side by side in quiet harmony.

Veins softly visible beneath the skin, tinted a gentle green, 

like a new born sparrow whose throat glows with color and 

movement when it swallows. 

And the nails, they always reflect her inner state.

On the days when she feels alive, every nail is trimmed, 

square and neat, uniform like tiny framed windows of care.

When her heart leaps with excitement, ready to go somewhere special, 

her nails sparkle, painted to match her dress, shining like little diamonds.

But, the days she drifts away from herself, 

when she forgets to glance at these tiny, loyal hands,

look closely then, and you’ll hear them whisper, 

maybe even scream without sound.

I need your attention. Look, haven’t you noticed? 

Some of us are broken — grown too long, and now we’re cracked.

And before long, the girl returns to herself.

She gazes at the backs of her hands, where pale veins draw delicate paths,

at the palms lined with mysterious symbols, at the uneven nails, some tired, 

and she wonders, Must I always feel okay to care for my hands?

These little hands, they’re powerful sorcerers.

They write, they create, they comfort with every touch.

They hold warmth, and give it too.

They squeeze tight before a big exam to release fear.

They dance with grace, with rhythm, with softness.

They hold, they heal, they carry life in gestures.

And the girl, emerging gently from her wandering thoughts,

looks once more at her hands, and then takes a quiet step forward,

to care for them,

to care for herself.