My hands tell stories for you to touch: 
left and right collaborating, communicating, striving
to create textiles richer than the value that cost measures. 
Details – often intricate and delicate – are whispered from my fingers, 
imbuing secrets into the seams. 
Calculated repetitions: 
[my stitches]: 
All lined up, side by side, 
working together like letters turning into language.

This is why I’m out here – 
to offer a gift to those who revel in nuance: 
the ones who pass
the same trees everyday, 
but still notice each one anew – 
I make these things for you. 
So wherever you go, 
you are home: 
embraced by hands that cared
enough to notice: 
hold you, 
cover the holes in you, 
Cover the whole of you.

when I’m gone, 
I wish to leave behind my hands – 
always been my smartest part. 
As a kid,
I believed every knuckle
or kneecap
or joint
was a tiny skull
Protecting a little brain
that controls all of its respective parts.
So I was careful with my hands, 
because they had the most brains
of any part of me,
& so logically, 
I let them do most of my thinking.
Their diligence quickly surpassed
any possible linguistic eloquence,
& so naturally, 
they also do most of my speaking:
stitch song sung
by finger choir:
hands were here:
& now yours:
meeting at these places
our hands have both touched,
transcending time & distance,
reminding us that it’s impossible
to ever be alone.

A gift,
to be a seam:
two separate entities
become one,
mending us.