Raw, dry with the air, Scratched and scraped, Soft or subtle, with vibrancy of life
the hands tell a story unto their own.
A handshake , calloused palms, each blister akin to the tale from which it boiled forth
The grip, firm to convey a message of steadfastness
Yet sensual when fingers tickle the inside to suggest the desire.
I look at my own hands, remembering
When as a boy how small the were in my father's own, when held in protection
How I cut myself with a tool as a youth, in a single folly of ineptitude trying to be a man.
And now, as middle age happens upon them
I see my father's past and my own future as though the dryness carts the tracks of my passing time.
I make my future with them by not reading them anymore.
