Hands

Hands

My hands are like snow-white birds,
flighty, never still,
they fly through the air,
coming to rest here and there.
When they are dirty,
stained and streaked with filth,
they are like fat squabbling pidgeons.
They are annoying to others,
they long to be free and clean.
And when I am sad and lonely,
my hands are soft, comforting
like baby chicks,
downy and brand-new to this earth.
But when I try to express this,
they tell me “stay quiet,
and wash your hands before dinner.”