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A silent ritual, a whispered plea,
fingers intertwined, a fragile lattice of hope.

We bend them, contort them, these extensions of our will,
as if their awkward posture could sway the universe,
as if a physical knot could bind fate to our desire.

Is it misbelief, a relic of ancient fears,
a tactile appeal whispered to unseen forces?
Or a desperate act of control,
a small, manageable illusion in a world of chaos?

The child's crossed fingers, a shield against playground taunts,
the gambler's twist, a silent bargain with chance,
the lover's clasp, a fragile bridge over doubt.

We hold our breath, as if the tension in our joints,
the pressure against skin and bone,
could somehow hold back the tide of uncertainty.

A tiny act of defiance, a rebellion against the inevitable,
a fragile gesture, a silent, hopeful lie.

Do we cross our fingers for luck, or for the illusion of it?
And in that fleeting moment, when hope and doubt collide,
do we find a strange, quiet comfort in the knot of our own hands?

©bfa032625

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