An old woman once told me
that I should play the violin because
of my long slender fingers.
My palms now are lined and wizened,
spots, on the back, speak
of ageing, like the rings of trees.
A Russian ring, on my left
wedding finger, a sign of wide
wealth received across years.
My fingers do serve important work,
a grandson clings to one per hand,
marches on to independence.
Their healing gift, pressured
across aching backs and limbs,
remove knots, bring rest.