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