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Her Hands V2 (poem)

By David Sandgrund

Riding shotgun in ambulance number six
Three wounded soldiers in the back
To be discharged for surgery

She stood outside the tent, dark eyes
alive to all around, black hair piled in a bun.
Starched white dress reaching to her knees,
Sleeves three quarters long, then I noticed her hands

There are some hands so beautiful, so soft;
Slender like hers, long thin fingers
Embellished with no varnish red or pink,
yet all aglow and full of gentle grace

This woman has vowed to get involved, to care.
Her hands will be the tender touch required
They will bring balm, assuaging aches and pains:
will bind and bandage healing hurts and wounds.

They're treasures lavished on the battleground.
They're treasures spent to praise a fighter's pluck.
They're treasures symbolized by this one sign
a cross bright red beneath the golden sun

Compassion here enfolds the field of war.
Here they sustain and nurse a hero's will.
Here soldiers, stricken down, for comfort lie.
Held in arms covered in brilliant white.

—David Sandgrund