Preparing for an Art Exhibit: The Poem

Window wall in process

More pieces in process of hanging

Art is waiting for it's place

work's to be placed in gallery

The Gallery Show of Women Artist's in Hamilton NY (May and June)  was inspired by a beautiful poem that was written by Suzanna Merritt.  Each artist received a copy of the poem below and designed their work around it.   This poem was very beautiful and made me wonder about the author so in the next post, you will learn about her too!

Her Hands

They began as tiny hands, perfect in form

Emerging from the womb

Knowing only how to cling.

Growing and learning, they travel life's path

Progressing toward their maturity:

Searching hands at the potter's wheel,

Muddied by wet clay, earnestly shaping

The vessel to hold their essence.

Dancing hands,delighting our senses,

Imaging our thoughts,

Gracefully conveying their subtle messages.

Musical hands, singing their songs,

Playing our dreams

On the keyboard of life.

Creative hands, knitting and sewing,

Patching together

The torn fabric of rented community.

Wedded hands, wearing the gold band of commitment,

Complementing his two hands:

A unity greater than the sum of its parts.

Researching hands, fingers tapping keys,

Recording thoughts, explaining the mysteries;

Her words alongside his words.

Mother's hands, training little fingers

In tying bows, fastening buttons,

And how to sip from the cup of life.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Weary, work-worn hands,

Wearing the sales tag of cheap labor

Yet priceless in their necessity.

Unhappy hands, bowing in obedience,

Endeavoring to protect

Smaller more fragile hands.

Loyal hands, continuing to serve, 

Honoring their purpose

In the face of betrayal.

Bound hands, in bandages of restraint,

Stifled into submission;

the world denied their caged potential.

Angry hands, forming into fists,

Hammering frustration, chiseling out change

On the wooden face of the status quo.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Healing hands, dressing the wounds, 

Easing the sick pain with the balm of Gilead;

Desperately needed, yet ever dwindling.

Calm hands, palms pressed together in prayer,

Claiming the warm power

To gently unfold the blanket of peace.

Still hands, laying crossed over the heart, 

Their purpose sustained

In the fullness of time.

Lifeless hands, relasing their ongoing spirit

To merge in mystical union with many hands,

Attached to arms that embrace the world,

Creating, serving, teaching, praying,

HER HANDS