Hands, #109

Rolling from the zucchinis she was holding, a green pepper dropped to the floor.

It bounced and rolled to a stop and I bent over to pick it up.

The green pepper is now in my hand, after leaving the hand that she used to pick it up from its place on the produce shelf.

Placed there by the hand of the produce stocker who pulled it from a box placed there by another’s hand.

Picked by the hand of another from a plant in a field grown from a seed planted by another’s.

I stand up and take a few steps, “Excuse me, I believe your dropped this,” my hand handing it back to hers.

a Chickadee sings
up high in a Cottonwood
swirling smoky air

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