Hands

All of a sudden it seemed

But I’m sure creeping up gradually

I didn’t notice

Until I did

The skin on the back of my hands

Is the texture of

Well, the only word is crepe

My hands have always been

Rather plump and not

As expressive and lithe as a ballerina’s

And they still are (plump that is)

Under the

Well, the only word is crepe

Now the very skin is a landscape

That one could pick out of a lineup

As seamed and individual as my palm

My palm, now, seems much the same,

Long life

Great love

Happy marriage

Innumerable grandchildren

(get to work, my son)

And my wrists still hold

Their tender blue pulse

You are alive

      alive

alive

7/22/20