Wrinkled

Your hands,

they tell a story

one that minds can’t piece together.

Decrepit and battered

With each blemish,

A significance

I see what you’ve been about all these years

Though I’ve known you a while

You lay your left in my right

So gentle

Yet war was made with these

Your grip, once strong

Taken away by time and ware

By his grace,

I share your hands --

Your hands,

They say it all.