The Hand

            The hand that strikes the dog that lies
            Cannot caress in gloved disguise
            The palm that offers food’s goodwill
            Is not for thief to steal by self-will
            The clay that moulds by sculptor’s wrist
            Should not fragment under fury’s fist
            The vase that’s filled of floral courtship
            Should not take risk from fingered tip
            No hand can shake for promise kept
            Then turn on terms that both accept
            No finger point by a collared arm
            From pulpit’s view to administer harm
            And no stone to throw on one accused
            As sin we all and all abuse

            Silvia Pecota
            June 7, 2012