Something there is that's so attractive about a dirty hand,
A hand not spent in indoor things,
Nor sipping tea,
Nor gently touching a perfect face.
A hand that plays and grubs
and feels the real that's real.
The kind of hand that makes the world.
Thanks to +lerato majikfaerie who's photo of a spider and hand inspired this poem, and to Robert Frost who's Mending Wall took over that spot in my brain that dictates rhythm and feel to the extent that I was done before I stopped to wonder where that came from, although the middle reminds me more of an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem. No not How do I love thee? Let me count the ways, but the poem of hers that I love the best, If thou must love me, let it be for nought.
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