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Poem

My hands are elephant hide.
I mean old, weathered, rough, 
a shady glen of crevices with ink stain valleys.
They are the window to my soul tonight.
They sleep off bumps and bruises from
me moving too fast, as usual.
They hold splinters and pick flowers.
They clean dishes and write plenty of love notes.
But they let the world see too much of me-
for if my hands are this old
(and this, bearing in mind, that we have settled the debate 
that these ARE in fact MY hands - and not some stranger's
who sometimes looks at me in the mirror with fantastical eyes of wonder)
then does that mean that I am old too?
The smile of a man at the grocery store who graciously
let me go in front of him with my armful of goods
(another day I thought I surely didn't need a cart)
told me that I didn't look a day over 23.
I laughed in good humor in an offhand way
but secretly stashed that little compliment away
to discuss later with my aging hands.
After all - they should be keeping up with the program!
I ply them with sweet lotions and they still
elephant hide me to death.
I pour all my emotions through them in verse
to rid my soul of excess baggage, and they still
insist on holding the ink as a reminder.
They do know me well though...
and as much as it's nice to be told you look younger than you are
by an unbiased stranger,
it's even nicer to be told you have more maturity than your age
by a trusted friend.
My hands remind me of this often, in our silent conversations
and tonight my age, reflected through them, feels bearably,
exactly where it should be.

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