Hands/ daily poem

His hands are a webbing of scarred
flowers, permanently swollen from grasping,
pushing, holding on. Hands don't reveal life
purpose or time.They are human tree rings, old
hands, notched with the dryness of winter
or water, the minute, missed scales of
caught fish, the black flecked grease of
frying pans. Hands have the
memory of what they hold the most
in the way they lay on night sheets.

Hands have metal rings, too. Circle symbols
mean I am taken, I have made promises,
I am rich, I love someone. Hands mostly
come in pairs. Sometimes, I want to hold
a hand in mine, believing the memories
of a world, theirs; old, young, extends
through the fleshy palms into my blood,
sending comfort, taking pain away.