Hands That Heal

Hands that heal.  Hands that touch.
Hands that trade wings for my crutch.
Hands that I once fled for fear.
Hands that, now, I want more near.

Hands that belonged to a foe.
Hands that changed.  Hands that know
Whence grows my pain.  Hands that feel
Each pained tendon.  Pain so real.

Hands touching my lower back.
Could there be a kinder attack?
Kindness appearing as pained balm.
I start to tense.  Says she, "Be calm."

Words of power.  Words so few
Reteach me, time number two,
That, herein, I have naught to dread.
Her hand touches back of my head.

Hand-memory comes pouring in.
Brain surgery. Head trauma, within.
Hands that stole tumors in red.
How much of red fled my head?

Hands so cruel.  Hands so kind.
Hands that since have crossed my mind.
Hands never staying for good.
I knew not whether they should.

Hands of angels, grasping my frame,
When I'd all but lost my name,
When I'd forgot the feel of balm.
Says she, the second time, "Be calm."

Words of caring, rife with love,
Remind me of love above.
Reminiscing as I do,
I remember loving you.

Hands of love still touch my head,
I lay quiet in hospital bed.
While an angel whispers sweet,
"Until next time, my love, we meet."

Slowly and yet quickly too,
She is gone, as once were you.
I lay here in sacred bed,
Where heaven's hands have soothed my head.

Hands and head and body through,
Never feel completely new.
Not pain nor soothing I'd undo
If I were given option to.

Adam Scott Campbell