Hmm. The drabble became this:

Leaves shiver, interwoven strands of vines
come alive with purpose, part
down the center of their mass and fall away
like halves of a curtain parted.

The hands that clasp the edges of its cloak
are made of leaves overlapped and woven
shaped into instruments of use
leaf-veins grown into sinew and bone.

With some changes in punctuation and line breaks is now this:

Leaves shiver
interwoven strands of vines
come alive with purpose
part down the center of their mass
and fall away like halves
of a curtain parted.

The hands that clasp the edges of its cloak
are made of leaves
overlapped and woven, shaped
into instruments of use
leaf-veins grown
into sinew and bone.

Still needs some work. And a title.

That has some lovely internal rhythms to it, either way.

You can't see me, but I'm bouncing.

I owe Steph LARGE for this. I'm nearly manic with glee. I don't quite believe it enough for relief, yet, but that's coming.

It's really cool either way, Bev.

This is three at once. I kind of went off on this topic...I almost feel like apologizing.

My hands look like other people’s hands, better than some. They look like piano players’ hands, even if they never have touched a piano. They are writer hands. People have told me that my hands look like they could wear lotion for money, which makes me think, only in America can it be good that my hands don’t make anything...no wait, that’s not even true. Men have come to life under my hands. But they do get to stay out of dishwashing liquid I’d get in trouble trying to get paid for that...friction consultant.

My hands don’t work like other people’s hands. They can be hesitant and shy and abandon each other. They drop things and act like teenaged employees I’m not sure whether to fire or be gentle with because we all were young once. When we all work together, I feel like celebrating, cause it happens sometimes, and it’s beautiful. But like most beautiful things, it doesn’t last. Not forever. My hands do everything on a keyboard. Fight, kill, save the world. I am lucky in my hands.

My hands feel like other hands. They respond to textures from cold glass to a loved one’s skin. Sometimes. I don’t touch just anybody. My hands have been raised in triumph, in anger, in wearing grape jelly that’s hard to get off. My hands love to touch leather and suede, and little raised beaded things on somebody’s shirt. My hands have expensive tastes and want to fondle silk. My hands can touch my wheelchair and not smear my nail polish, in a skill worked out over time, even in an electric one with a...joystick. My hands gave my inner twelve-year-old that pause. They think she’s been good this week and deserves it, especially since they don’t work fast enough for rude finger gestures.

Nice, Erika. (And you do have stunning, stunning hands. They're amazing.)

Thank you. I feel really pretty now.

Oh erika. Those are wonderful.

Thank you. I feel really pretty now.

You are! Pretty and witty and, okay, not so much with the gay, but hey! Two outta three ain't bad!

Man, all three of those kill. I love the line about men coming to life under them.

Another memory, same set of hands, from the rock and roll years:

Roll

Hot music, hot night, hot stage lights.

She's got her high heels on, her leather, a killer hat with a veil that she bought in Paris a long time ago.

The band is rocking; guitars trading off and the bass stitching the rhythm, oh yes, oh baby.

She's used to him playing the stadium gigs, fifty thousand screamers, faceless. This small club, impromptu, it's better.

The lead singer purses his famous lips, the bassplayers drops a walking line into the mix.

Piano time. WHAM, his hands hit the keyboard.

Later, when the show's over, his hands come home to her.