The Moments at Hand
The most weathered hands hold the most profound stories.
Old Hands
My fingers tingle to the touch
of a new morning, pull the blankets down,
drag me out of bed to greet the day,
fumble with the knob on the bedroom door.
A hot mug of coffee brings life
back to these numb sausage links,
soothes swollen knuckles, prepares them
to complete the day’s objectives.
They have always been my grip
on life, more valuable than gold.
Now, they’ve become lead anchors,
clumsy weights at the ends of my arms.
These hands have been cut, stitched, frozen,
and smashed. They’ve built, broken, played,
caressed, applauded. Now, I feel each
cranky joint knuckle under to age,
rebel against dexterity, against
limited flexibility, struggle
to find the willingness to work,
to hold on to fragile moments at hand.
Refugees
Pin oak leaves spin through
the air, cluster and swoop
like starlings against a gray sky.
They remind me of winters
in the north, how wind swirled
white wonder, then gathered
on the ground, drifted against
doors and entranceways,
insulated us from the cold.
Here, snow is a transient,
preordained for somewhere else,
but leaves still congregate
against our doors, brown snowflakes
loitering, wayward pilgrims
tossed by alien winds,
wretched refuse seeking
shelter from a global storm
within our guarded gates.
M. Scott Douglass lives in Mint Hill, North Carolina. He is the publisher and managing editor at Main Street Rag Publishing Company. His books include Auditioning for Heaven, Balancing on Two Wheels, Steel Womb (Revisited), Hard to Love, Just Passing Through, Living in a Red State Blues and the upcoming 8000 Mile Roll, a Motorcycle Memoir due out in 2024.