The Hands That Support Us Are Hidden

A thanks for the hands that support us,
The hands that support us are hidden.

I find hands at the dinner table,
skillfulness of fingers present upon the carefully planed wood, and chair, in the woven cloth laid upon it.
I grasp the echo of their mark-making in the substance of ceramic plates, in the argent shine of utensils.

I find them sheaved in bountiful grain fields, piled colorfully in vegetables,
and stacked among picked fruit in ripening orchards,
hands that have prospered and failed, failed and prospered again.
I thank hands for food I didn’t plant, didn’t grow, or harvest, didn’t mill,
didn’t bake, food I didn’t raise, lives I did not have to take, or catch, or cut short.

I thank them for the time restored to me for work and play and rest.
I thank them while standing in checkout lines and at farm markets.
I thank the hands encircling my home.

I find hands in factories and ships,
cutting and sewing cloth to make the clothes on my back, assembling fans to cool me, extruding and casting parts to repair appliances and vehicles, hands loading and unloading containers.

I thank hands, capable in trucks, delivering vast numbers of packages,
I thank the knuckles bruised and skinned from building the roads I travel, in trains that carry me to and from work, on bridges to cross gaps of physical connection, and on highways, stringing entire towns and cities together.
In tunnels, I find hands holding back the sea, in airplanes, calming baseless fears.

Of these hands, I have complained when impatient, though they work in the dark, the cold, and the heat. I thank them for ensuring my safety and bringing me the world outside my own.
I find them while waiting for an oil change, in the security line, and carrying a suitcase or stroller up the subway stairs.

I find hands in electric lines, in light to extend my days,
I find them in connecting phone lines, relieving me of the need for physical travel and wasted time.
I thank the hands that create roads for words. I find them inside the computer screen, in newspapers, in books.
I find them in household trash barrels, in fuel delivery, in underground waterways; lifelines drawn by hands.

I thank the shielding fingernails of hands in schools, in hospitals, in police stations, in fire stations, in disasters, in war-torn nations.
I thank hands for teaching.
I thank them for healing, for expressing their sorrow when their efforts fail,
I thank them when they protect and save. I thank the hands with palms raised in silent prayers for peace.

All these hands, in concert, orchestrate my life, paint the backdrop of my days,
They touch me from afar through generations before and behind.
Never let me reduce their power or claim to be self-sustaining.
Never let me take for granted the benefits they have created.

Searching far and wide to find their leaf, I return to hands as a dove to dry land,
I am cradled as in the care of a mother’s arms, far-flown and weary
as I retire to my rest.
I thank the hidden hands for the ease they have brought me,
May they also find support and comfort in mine.

This poem was originally published on Medium in Scribe as part of a one-year seventy-two poem project based on calendar season names.

In thinking about the micro-season in the traditional Japanese lunisolar calendar Farmers Drain Fields- mizu hajimetekaruru (水始涸), which refers to the draining of rice paddies, it occurred to me how much of the fabric of our lives we take for granted and only miss when we become inconvenienced.

I thought of many other examples of poems and songs of thanksgiving, and looked at their structure and scope while writing and thinking about this poem.
Of songs, I looked to Wind Beneath My Wings by Jeff Silbar and Larry Henley, the hymn Come, Ye Thankful People Come by Henry Alford, and the recent song Santé by Juanpaio Toch, Moon Willis, and Stromae.
Of poetry, Walt Whitman’s I Hear America Singing and Pablo Neruda’s The Great Tablecloth.
Of art, the opening scene of the film version of Last of the Mohicans (1992),and Jean-François Millet’s painting The Gleaners.

I have always wanted to be invited to give the grace at my family's Thanksgiving celebration, and this is the poem I am planning to use. I promise to begin well before the food is served, so it isn't stone cold.

Natalie