I am looking at a photo taken of me
petting an old golden retriever
who lay sprawled in the middle of a street
under the heat of the summer sun
my arm is outstretched
captured in a moment of caressing
the soft fur of his honey colored ears
warm to the touch
my hand turned in a gentle gesture
long fingers and
blue veins visible through thin skin
I have been told I have graceful hands
hands that should hold brushes
pluck at strings
hands that create
for a long time I believed
I destroyed everything I touched
studying the photo
I look down at my hands as I write
moving like tiny dancers
beginning to understand
