Hands

A poem that touches upon the unique quality of a midwife

These are my hands

Through these hands I have come to see the world.

These hands have measured the growth of life

and documented the stalling of time.

They guide my ears to places where I hear

The watch-like beat of tiny hearts.

My hands have felt the hard bony framework of passages

and the softness of muscles

Which will bulge like petals of a rose.

My hands have opened windows to the energy

Of the souls of those I have touched.

They have felt the frigid rigidity

Of steel instruments and the softness of a friend.

There are stories in these hands,

read from the pages of the work of women.

With my hands I felt the power

Of the strength it takes to grow

and release a new spirit.

My hands were born with the knowing of touch.

The journey has added the how and when

and the time to ask for help.

Teaching hand engulfed mine

until they were ready to fly.

My hands are joined in a circle which is

Unbroken through time.

Sometimes my hands do nothing.

Their most important work

will be still with fingers laced

and witness

The “art of doing nothing” has been passed

from one generation to the next.

Mine have been taught by some of the most powerful hands

to watch and wait.

This is perhaps the hardest for

hands born to touch.

If I have nothing else to give to you, let me

teach you how to see with your hands.

How to open the windows of life, and close

the door softly when it is time.

In the darkness

It is your hands that will light the way.

These are my hands.

These are the hands of a midwife.

-- Jan Weingrad