my hands into yours

I dig with a dirt shovel,

to let my hands talk amongst themselves.

I steering-wheel wander to let my hands

slow-dance in a private setting.

I clap as if entertained,

but secretly, 

there is their nudity and touch

in public surroundings, 

that otherwise they account for.

if I reach out to touch,

they go as emissaries,

carrying a deliverance 

in a diversely secret code,

possibly to be followed 

by my eyes in affirmation.

I have seen my hands

just lay there,

as if obedient service dogs in waiting.

and when they wave,

either one or the other,

they both know of acceptable methods

and appropriate distances in usage.

they attempt a lip service act

with voiceless distance covered to convey.

what they say and do

is mind-worthy in effort,

yet the tension they privately carry

is all about emotions that remain,

unspoken in their deliveries.

if you ever see my hands trembling,

they are about to weep,

either for joy or sadness.

take them into yours.

let them mutually converse,

for the rest of our beings 

will be grandly served . . .