My Gentle Hands

My hands-

How gentle they once were-

To stroke hummingbirds and trace patterns on butterfly wings-

To plant a flower in the ground and watch it sprout before my eyes-

To groom a newborn sapling’s leaves-

My hands were once this gentle-

Now it is not so-

The hummingbird does not come around anymore-

The butterfly’s wings break-

The flower wilts and shrivels before it’s roots even take-

The newborn sapling produces no leaves to groom-

Perhaps it is not my hands-

Maybe it is my soul.