Soft and supple beginnings are no stranger to these hands Their winter skin longing for a smattering of dirt and blood Their direction lost without the topography of sun-kissed freckles and leathery ridges
These hands were meant for than ornamental
These hands will rise to the occasion like the sun peering over a rugged mountain range They will play a chorus of wilderness melodies. Popping the metal lids of ammo cans, gently dipping the wooden oars into the swift current, snapping twigs for late-night fires. They will not rest until your body is laid under the banner of glistening stars
Summer hands are freedom fighters Holding stoic as the rest of your body rattles with fear Grasping tighter when every other ounce of your being says, “we can't” A part of you that speaks louder than your voice Calluses that reek of uncharted adventure They tremble to no task or no man
Summer hands have touched more life— more real moments than our feeble words will ever articulate. They long for connection beyond the wooden handle of an ash oar. They cradle a 6-year-old’s hand as he holds a rough-skinned newt for the first time. They reassuringly squeeze the shoulder of the 68-year-old woman who decides she is ready to jump from the tallest rock. They clasp together tightly in the warmest of hugs when their fellow guide brings them coffee in bed.
Summer hands are not just battered fingers and bruised knuckles. Summer hands are a reflection of the wildness rattling inside our bones. They twitch with excitement every time the cool wind rushes past their palms. They fall into a deep love with the emerald water mornings when glowing sunrises warm their fingertips. They know no adventure too big.
Summer hands were not made for ordinary.
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