I women’s life is transformation. Maybe more so than a man’s .
There are more bridges to cross over.
I was a child who wandered in the woods.
I was a student eager to please but not liking to get noticed.
I was the scientist at a messy lab bench busy with my hands.
I was a mother holding a newborn in those same busy hands.
I am artist trying in the end to find her naming.

As a child I curled my hands around the soft white blanket
Rubbing it agaisnt my thumb. Feeding it through my fingers
Until it was worn to tatters.

As a student those hands held a book, leafing through the edges of pages.
And wrapped tightly around a pencil. Fighting my tight scrawl on the page.

As a scientist my hands in nitrile gloves. I liked the blues one.
Smell of ethanol keeps things clean.
I moved in the sterile hood lifting the lids off dishes.
Aspirating the media. And carefully adding fresh.
My hands were careful. Learned to be careful. Mindful.

As a mother I held the strange child in my hands unbelieving that this was something my 
Body had created. Holding. Those hands cleaned, and washed, and fed.
Nurtured. played. wondered.

And now as. Poet. Those hands move and type out words.
These hands brush agaisnt the strings of a guitar,
Those hands wander and dream.