This is my hand No, no Not gnarled, wizened nor old Not crisscrossed by lines That tell the stories of a life lived This hand has not Cradled a new born child, nor Cradled a rock in anger This hand has not Touched death Nor felt the breath of laughter Nor touched lips that love This is my hand Yes, yes This soft, unlined hand This hand has not moulded But is waiting to be