I admire a musician’s hands.
Long, slender hands that move with ease over piano keys
And expertly pluck at violin strings, emitting rhythms
That leave my heart mesmerized and ears pleading for more.

I admire a sculptor’s hands.
Strong, rough hands, that strike, with practiced precision
At the chisel, contouring the meanders of the rugged frame
Of the pristine white horse- one I could only long to call my own.

I admire an artist’s hands.
Strained fingers tightly gripping a brush, layered with cool colors,
While quick strokes of the wrist add depth and enchantment
To the menacing ocean I would not hesitate to dive into.

I admire the hands of creators for the art of creation is one that
Leaves me baffled. It intimidates me, the dexterity which
Deems a commoner- not unlike myself- capable of breathing life
Into the abstract concepts and images that exist only in the
Unfathomable universes of their minds; and the courage it takes
For them to allow a blind, inexperienced soul to critique it.


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