With these fingers

With these fingers I can do anything
I can write until my heart is empty
every word that I feel, transferred
onto a piece of scrap paper
dog eared and tired
but no less poetic.

With these fingers I can cup my child's face
tell them they mean the world to me
wipe away their tears
point to the stars and remind them
that they are simply dreams
waiting to be realised.

With these fingers I can create
a master piece with brushes
a memory with a camera
lines in the sand setting boundaries,
ripples in water distorting reflections
starting love in the bedroom.

But lately my fingers have frozen rigid
glued tightly together, without daylight
showing through the two halves of a mask
that is formed when I cover my face,
It is here I am most comfortable,
the place where my dreams have perished.