Strong Fingers

Here, at night and at the desk I've placed

in my large home’s small kitchen,

my writing left, left by me for now,

I sit and look at my two hands

and flex my fingers, and, in turn,

I close them tight and spread them out

and see they change from balls to stars

or, spheres to stars, the two of them,

both hands, before my face, before

my eyes. Here, at night, the short

summer night, when it is dark,

in my small kitchen, with one lamp

only lit, I view my hands

with wonder, and a sense of time

not all that long, when I have had

prosperity, ‘til now good health,

and, mostly, happiness. But, wait.

For it is most when I’m alone

such as tonight, the world not here,

perhaps outside the open door

to my side porch, its ceiling

painted white a hundred years,

that I can grasp that I have had

the fortune I have had and, yet,

I feel it slip away. Not yet but soon

I think it will be gone. And, open now,

these stars won't last. Soon

they will be cold as scissors

unable to grasp. Already much

that I can't do. I leave these hands,

I leave these hands for others, for you,

now, when still lively, and able

to turn globes to stars, and stars

to globes, at least, to try.