Metacarpus

Lines of elegance bend in space,
Contract in a gnarled boulder
Twisted bone, sinew, and skin,
Endless wonder to the beholder,
Like a sprout from a husky seed,
Then to rest, as a poised spider.

Grooves in-fold like a river bed,
Endless tributaries tell a story,
Of work, wounds, or simply years,
Palm lines tell as if divinatory,
Not fate, but of brooding the past,
And something of the weight of glory.

And endless are the words of hands,
Caressing, holding, or raising fists,
Enfolding prayer, clinging to love,
Or cupping a face that ever persists
Questioning, with arms extended high,
Fingers tremble in the morning mists.

Empty cups rest upon a wearied lap,
Tears slip through finger and thumb,
Caught one moment in pores and pleas,
Until nail and skin release the sum
Of breath and pain in bended palms,
Resisting not more what will become.

The sacrament seed,
The true ending.