Day 7 – These Hands

These are they that use to have such skill.
That walked the giant type writer keys with a surgeons hand.
That threaded the tiny needle with a sewers touch.
Now they are bent and crippled, stippled with a thousand memories
What shall I say but these hands use to be so strong, thin, and long.
They turned the wheel of a sailing boat, tying off knots and ropes.
They turned the key in the wardrobe door and opened the gate to Narnia, Oz, and Diagon Alley.
With every page the revealed a masterpiece, at least a story to tell, these fingers held glory, and searched for eternity in sand, brought home in flip flops
These fingers lingered on a hand while it crossed the gates of another plane
They followed the life flow from human eyes to a space that no longer held life or light.
These hands reached inside the coffin and held your cold stiff fingers like ice without the give.
These hands faced death and even yet they face a world of catastrophe and hopefulness.
Like books that tell a humble story these hands tell the time and the root of many a tale
My fingers walk right down each page and sacrifice so you should all hear vanities, and vice, calamities and rights.
A story of fingers and hands, no longer young and so tired they ache to the bones marrow
These hands held so many things
Now they wait to be still.



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