John Anderson Poet Rhyme

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The Weight of Things in Fingers

At five years, what matters fits within one hand—
A beetle, a stone, a fistful of warm, soft sand.
Five fingers close around each thing that's new;
What matters is what a little hand, can hold as true.

At fifteen, what matters is the watching crowd.
To be yourself, but not too different, odd or loud.
The crowd's glances matter, weighing who they see.
Their recognition shapes who you might want to be.

At thirty, what matters gathers into something more.
More keys, more names, more feet across the floor.
Fingers grip the proof of what they've built and own;
What matters is the weight, the way they have grown.

At fifty, what matters turns from having more, to needing less.
From what is treasured, to what's measured in tenderness.
The fingers loosen their grip on what they used to hold.
An open hand held out to greet, outweighs the fist of gold.

At seventy, what matters circles back to five.
The smallest things again, feel the most alive.
Old fingers touch the morning's silver dew—
A reaching hand seeks to feel, to touch, and renew.

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