This hand has lived a thousand lives,
it is thick, coarse, rugged as an old country road,
with crevices and ditches and potholes,
ridges and untamed streams bedded with river rocks,
It smells of sawdust and rusty tools,
its nails forever blackened with the soil they have dug
and the plants it has tirelessly grown year after year,
It harbors untold stories of battles in remote lands of memories,
of the lovers whose curves they have stroked and whose names are long forgotten,
And now here it is, dry and silent like a desert canyon,
but so warm I wish I were small enough to lie down in it.
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