Poem: Fingertip Symphony

Fingertip Symphony
by Emma Probst

My fingers are tiny acrobats
their movements still amaze
Silent, they speak.
With grace, they dance
and grasp with dexterity

They display their acrobatic skill
learning to play guitar.
At first they leapt reluctantly
unsure of which fret to land
but now they fly bravely
between each string.
Performing great melody.

My fingers externally express
internal contemplation.
They vault between the letter keys
their dance, producing words.
They grasp a pen, skate across the page
forming symbols for innermost thoughts.
Text becomes the outgrowth of essence
hid within recess of soul.

My fingers themselves can speak
in gestures they choose to perform.
The high-five, wave and applause
all declaring approval and praise.
While other movements are deemed obscene
demeaning poses intended
only to insult, affront or debase
the person to whom they’re directed

The fingertips also experience
language within themselves.
The simple touch or caress discerning
attributes unperceived by sight.
Familiarity established through a loving touch
or lost through the flinch of rejection.

The fingers retain their movement
relentless, without rest or fail.
And yet, for all of their service
fingers are taken for granted
only acknowledgment seen
when they are injured or pained.
With our fingers, we grasp the link to life
or knowledge, community.
Still the fingers remain in their dance
the unfaltering symphony