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My hands are distorted with calluses,

The constant work and labor are written in them,

Sometimes they bleed

When the hardships and pain cut too deep,

 

My story is embedded in them,

Hiding in every fine line and scar,

I can no longer feel the cold,

I fear it has grown to be a part of me,

Has dripped like a venom into my heart,

 

Such repetitious work,

My body has become a machine,

My hands no longer have to think,

The actions are programmed into every finger tip,

Every cell,

My body has become like my hands,

Scarred and callused,

 

For a while now

I have thought that I could not feel anything,

Not a sweet touch,

Or even a sour pain,

 

But here I stand

With a flower in my hand,

They surround me now,

No machines

No work,

It rests peacefully in my hand,

 

I feel the soft petals against my palm,

The world around me takes a deep sigh

And the breeze caresses my cheek,

I can feel it,

 

The warmth of the sun

As it kisses my scarred hands,

The coolness of the river

That is fed by the rain,

I can feel it,

 

I can breathe

Here,

Where clocks are not my chains to bear,

And labor does not hold it's whip,

 

The breeze,

It speaks to me,

Tells me of wondrous things,

I fold my wounded fingers

Around nature's flower,

I felt the beauty

Leak between the cracks and the scars,

Such soft hands for such a rough life,

Such a wonderous gift nature can bring,

To an overburdened spirit

And a stranger to light,

 

A breath of nature's freshest air

And beauty,

That is what I needed.