Monday, August 1, 2016

These Old Hands

There they are at the ends
Of my hairy arms,
More familiar than my nose
(Which I can’t see without a mirror).

Each vein, each spot,
Each scar, scab, groove
Has tales to tell
If I cared to share.

But it’s too soon;
New stories of my hands
Unfold each day; let’s wait
To catalog

Until the morning comes
When these old hands
No longer move.

©2016 John I. Blair

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