Homage to the Left Hand
       

Not the south paw of the left
handed, but you, the stepchild,
half-sister of the right, the one it
mirrors in a gesture of prayer.
To see you work another fugue,
so like a spider that weaves
note to note, fret to fret; to fathom
the great design of memory
and nerve, the body's music
that is your half of things, your
hemisphere, who is anyone
to call you the weaker hand.
Not that problems are any easier
being wordless, shoulder-deep
in the hole of the unknown.
What is it you hope to find there
in the soft light of intuition,
as your double takes the lead,
the pen, the rein, again and again
striking out to greet the world.
Ask the man who cups the curve
ball that slaps his catcher's mitt.
You make it the heart of the mitt.
That's your gift, your grace, your rhythm
in the most consuming tasks.
You who comfort the brother hand
when it is at a loss for hands,
or cinch the wing of the daily knot.
Ask the bride what hand she offers.
Your drawings may be innocent.
The name you write a child's name.
But without you where would he be,
the tightrope walker, his hands extended
like pans in the scales of justice.
In one the dawn, the other dusk.
If you could dream, you'd be the Lord
of Dreams. And just like a dream
there is precision in you yet.
There are entire cities to build,
roofs to lay above our beds.
All night I hear you, silent, still,
beneath the thunder overhead.
You who balance the waiting nail.

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Copyright © 2012 Bruce Bond All rights reserved
from The Visible
LSU Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission