My Hands

My hands are with the earth
there is dirt caked under each fingernail
like childhood mudpies
or a trailing pothos

My callouses peel as a moon phase
first, they are full
like the fractals of my first notes
then they are silent
a rest

My fingers are rimmed with blue
from far too cheap rings
from the pop-open feel from 25 cents
like me running my hands over the material
makes it all worth it