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.