River Hands

Your hands are aging, wrinkles deeper than the crevices in your heart. You’ve outlived your lifeline, stretching beyond the feeble mark where a palmist has marked your death Scooping water from the river, your hands serve as reservoirs. Your hands will never cement. Yet you take in more water, watch it leave you, and come back for more. I’m watching you from the riverbank. Your presence is a lighthouse, guarding those that pass. You watch and you warn, a never ending cycle. So I ask you, “why do you catch those that will always slip away” and “your hands were not meant to hold this water.” Your hands are still aging, holding on to the water. And for a minute, you pause to look at me. You cup your hands for the last time, and you keep them in the river. Now nothing can escape you.