These hands are mine

working overtime

 

stop and stare

 

the lines that were once not there

cross like broken canals

empty and dry

 

winter hands

 

cold carved ruts

and pale scars

greet one-another

and speak silently

of a known past

and an unknown future

 

these old hands

are the children

of still older ones

to come

 

dry bones of the eschaton

enfleshed and living now –

 

but cold.

                  very cold.