- Poem by Casey Henshaw, Grade 6

My hands are Mount Everest,
Jagged at every turn.

My nails are the Grand Canyon,
Worn down after so much time.

My fingers are the flowers,
Blowing in the wind.
Curving this way and that,
With nothing to stop them.

My index fingers are mountains.
Big at the bottom,
With a point on the top.

My knuckles are ponds.
For they are not round hills,
But curve into my hand.

My veins are creeks,
Flowing into the ponds of my knuckles.

The lines on my palms are paths,
Each going a different direction,
Leading to a new adventure.

My fingertips are boulders,
Stopped at the very edge of a cliff.

My fingers are a steep mountain.
They come up from the ponds,
And jut into the sky.

Everything small,
And everything big,
Come together to make my hands,
And our world.