My Hands Have Turned To Dust (MS)

I go to the ancient chestnut tree

and feel its clumsy bark

in my soft, gentle hands


No birds sing

yet my ears are open to the potential

of their charm,

crows look glum in their silent huddle


In this dark December morning

I watch the leaves turn to muddy mulch

in a wind-strewn field


I take my hands off the tree

The fingers gone!

The palms rotting

towards the wrist


I ask my hands what I have done

to deserve this

I ask my God what I have done

to deserve this.

The chestnut tree looks down on me

with pity and sad acceptance


What were once my hands

lie on my wet boots

as dust

just visible in the beginning of dawn

and I hope, I think

I see

the green shoots of new hands

emerging from my wrists

and the tree opens its heart

to my fate.




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