Hands

Today I look at the hand holding this pen

And am willing to write what I see:

Translucent skin stretched across tendons and bones like a worn umbrella.

A map crisscrossed by blood-bearing rivers.

Age spots sprinkled at random like towns.

All overlaid by gossamer wrinkles –

The topography of time.

I don’t feel fragile, but my hands are beginning

To look like my mother’s.

A peculiar beauty reminiscent of crackled glass.

Young eyes see old hands as a fading,

A metamorphosis toward the grotesque:

Delicate care-worn claws.

Old eyes see old hands as incandescent

Lighted by holding babies, turning earth, soft caresses.

Burnished by love.