I imagine tracing every line of your hands
With my "never did a hard day's work in my life" own.
Running my soft made-for-page-turning, paper-pure tiny fingers
When I lay here at night alone.
Much like nature, in twisting branches, sprawling root systems and fallen boughs
Hands possess features of weathering and of damage, patches scarred or rough.
Yet all formed through the fortune and wonder of being alive,
Marks of courage, and healing, experiences, the times we showed weakness, yet also times we were tough.
I wish I could explore each iteration in yours,
And be the one who hears every story that goes along with how you acquired each.
Instead I'm a lone almost blossom, a bud on the edge of my beloved Winter,
Certain the Springtime won't see me become any "ripe for the picking" sweet peach...