On a hazy July Sunday, the clouds softened the heat
And I sat twisting my hair at an irregular beat.
I lied still for a while, while my brain sorted out,
A peculiar quandary I was stressing about.
A wise man posed a question to the world today,
And I was perplexed that I had no answer to say.
He invited all people of greater influence or none,
To look in their hand, and use what they’d been given.
I looked in my hand and saw nothing there,
And felt a down spiral of immediate despair.
I felt undefined like a nonsensical word,
Or a Shepherd who lost every sheep in his herd.
Again I looked to my palm with a discerning eye,
And studied each spiral and line gone awry.
I remembered that each fingerprint is unique to each hand,
And at that, I relaxed and began to understand.
Each finger was printed unlike any other,
To distinguish it’s purpose from it’s sister or brother.
And at THAT I smiled and looked down at my feet,
So calloused and veiny from keeping the beat.
A dancer’s identity lives in her sole.
Her hands are empty cause her feet have control.
With my answer in mind I jumped up feeling smart,
And danced on my soles to the beat in my heart.
JESS COFFMAN
JESS COFFMAN
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