your hands

your hands
are getting old.
you see them
in the light
on a book,  reaching
for a knife
or fork.
they are thick
with years,
calloused and
veined.  soft spots,
brown, lie along
the thumbs. they
are the hands you've
held other hands
with, hands that
gripped tools.
the waving
of hello or
farewell, all a
part of them.
these are the hands
that were young
and traced lines
against a cold
winter window.
they have been empty,
they have been
full. they are
your hands. no
one else's.