Time Passes

Time Passes

It’s the hands.

Looking at the hands,

  seeing the creases and folds that

  came on slowly

  and into focus suddenly. Swollen,

  giving in to arthritis and gravity,

  knobs and knots

  as if they belong on trees.

It’s not any different

  than looking in the mirror,

  really,

  except that seeing the face

  requires a conscience commitment

  or, an accidental passing. The hands, though,

  are right there, in plain view

  all day and always.                          

3/11/14

 

3/9/15  I happened upon a file of writing bits and pieces today, a year after writing this, about my old and wrinkled hands. Another year has passed. Knobs and wrinkles.

3/4/16  Weird--I am going through pieces of writing again today, another year later!