I'm Lana Christman. I wrote this poem for the most basic objects in our lives and how many memories they hold. I attached my own memories in greatest to my hands. One specific memory I have from childhood is a flash image of me looking down at my hands. I remember how normal they looked to me, but how small they seemed compared to everything else around me. The memories of my hands grew as time grew, and now I have a million words to describe them.

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Tips beamed through Portals

Of magic baked forests,

And silver toned rivers

Shone through their moons

Where crows sneaked

Along the crust ridden shadows.

The valleys of my hands

Have known abstract seasons

With layers as new

As sunset signed bread.

That knew secrets

As soft as sunlight butter swaying,

silently on the sand

Ideas fly through wavelengths

Like plastic bags in autumne,

Silhouetting past lives,

With hands telling photos

And visions past mind’s eye