My Hands

When I look at my hands,

I see what I once thought

Were an old man's hands.
I have earned these wrinkled
And aged spotted hands.

My hands have held babies, puppies, and kittens.

They have wiped tears from children's faces.

My hands have cleaned poop, vomit, and crud.

They have thrown newspapers
Onto porches from my bike.
They have swung hammers
That built shelves, green houses, and toys.

My hands have kneaded dough.

When I was in Viet Nam,

They loaded heavy amo

Into the magazine

Beneath our ship's cannon.

My hands have crocheted baby blankets,
Bathing suits and a tostada.

They have picked up kids

Who've crashed their bikes.

I have held hands with my lover,

With elders, and children.
My hands have massaged sore muscles,
And they have brought healing to the wounded.

My hands have patched torn skin
On my mother-in-law’s arm,
And they have applied Band-aides
On children’s scuffed knees.

My hands have played the guitar,
And rhythmically beat the shaman’s drum.

My hands caressed our son’s face,
And stroked his arm
When he was dying.

I am grateful for my wrinkled
And aged spotted hands.

Depression Is Temporary

Everything is temporary.

When the somber

Lightless fog of depression

Surrounds us,

We are trapped,

Shut up,

Caged and shackled

To the floor.

We repeatedly scrawl

The same question:

What's the point?

The Fog whispers back,

"Everything is pointless."

In those moments,

We agree.

And then we feel it,

Barely noticeable, at first.

The wagging tail

Swishes peripheral sparks

Well before we hear the barks

Of our own internal puppy

Well before we feel the wet kisses

Well before the wagging tail

Blows away the Fog.

And the Fog evaporates

Leaving its underarm stench

To linger for a bit

Before the light of normality

Nods and says,

"I'm sorry it took so long

To come back.

Would you like a cookie? "