The Hands of Time

I look at my hands, once quite lovely
with smooth, unblemished skin
and see instead a mesh of veins
quite visible beneath the thinning,
wrinkled skin, the nails ridged
and refusing to grow, splitting
in spite of all the supplements I take,
organic vegetables I ingest

Only their palms appear unchanged,
their working surface relatively
wrinkle-free, though the thumb
mounds have lost their youthful fullness
and veins appear where once
only pink, rosy flesh was visible

They tell a story, these hands of mine,
of love gained and lost and given...
of heartache and heartbreak and
heartfelt joy...of gratitude and
fervent prayer...of supplication
and giftedness...of sorrow felt
and comfort given...of meals cooked
and served and beds made and children's
wounds attended...

They have touched and held and felt so much,
these hands of mine, conveying
to my mind and heart messages
from the world around me, love letters
from my daily life reminding me of
what a gift the whole thing is,
reminding me to cherish every moment,
lest it slip too quickly through my aging fingers