As I sit on the old chair
I look at my hand lying
On the table, both so worn
With use, and lined with age.
Both relics of a bygone era,
Both have seen so much use.
These hands are scarred,
Criss-crossed with reminders
Of old wounds, and old times.
These hands are old, and as I look
The steadiness fades, and they shake
Reminding me that maybe these hands,
These ancient hands,
Stiff hands, scarred hands,
Old hands, and worn hands
Aren't what I remember them to be.
Anne Rhitak
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/these-hands-4/
