A tangled mess of lines,

creases of joy

and sorrow impressed

into the palm –

they are not

beautiful.

dun and chapped,

as tools

for mending,

they have no

delicacy

or soft

edges.

They brusquely sit, forms

isolated

by their harshness, broken

by the years. Yet,

as our fingers entwine –

this austere act of

completion –

they are

perfect.

 

(Many thanks to my high school English teacher, Scott Gilbert, who helped edit this piece. I hope you are still well wherever you are.)