Medicine and the Arts
The Blue Jug
A blue jug with a yellow handle
stands by my bed.
My hands can't trace its curve or hold
its calm smooth weight.
Out of my reach, it glows and fills
my days with joy.
He was the liveliest lad in the village,
sparky and tough and
sharp as a knife.
Drank like a fish and walked with a swagger,
cocky and careless,
quick as they come.
When he came to the dance, the girls stopped their chatter,
holding their breath, while
he took whom he chose.
Now he's chained to a bed, his eyes on the ceiling,
thinking and waiting –
but not for the girls.
Your Hands and Mine
Yours are active, lithe and strong,
weathered and warm,
beautified through work and toil.
Mine are failing.
Yours deftly grasp the staff of life,
they carve and mould,
triumphant in their joyful strength.
Mine are fading.
Your virile hands caress her face,
drink the cup,
hold her firmly, close and warm.
Mine are dreaming.
Yours give gifts of golden wealth
that brim with life.
My feeble, pale and futile hands
grasp insubstantial shafts of light.