My hand

This is my hand
No, no
Not gnarled, wizened nor old
Not crisscrossed by lines
That tell the stories of a life lived

This hand has not
Cradled a new born child, nor
Cradled a rock in anger

This hand has not
Touched death
Nor felt the breath of laughter
Nor touched lips that love

This is my hand
Yes, yes

This soft, unlined hand
This hand has not moulded

But is waiting to be

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