Please, hand, before I forget again,
tell me of this gentleman
whose arm you rest upon,
with such familiarity.
I try to trust you, hand, despite the way
you've grown transparent, disrobing your blue
arrangement of floral veins
over this tortured bed of knuckles.
Your fingertips still send such delicate songs
of warmth and firmness in his wrist.
How did you know it would feel this way,
reaching out with palsied touch,
that it would not pull away like others in this home?
How well your often clumsy grip
fits his forearm like a well worn nightgown
in calm and constant support.
I think, dear hand, that whoever
had this man for a husband
must have been a very lucky woman.