These Hands

Whose hands are these at the end of my arms???

My face; it's not so bad
My legs; their pretty good
My hands however, tell a story that they never, ever, should

How dare they betray me, these hands that tell the truth
About my journey, sorrows, and my fading youth

With science and cosmetics; my crows-feet don't exist!
The sagging jaw and fallen breasts merely become myth...
My hands however, betray me - and tell the world my story
They strip me of my youth and reveal my fading glory

Not beautiful hands of wisdom
Not beautiful hands of grace
Just hands that - to me at least - look entirely out of place

Not the hands of my Mother, that made me feel so safe
Not the hands of Grandma, that matched her wrinkled face
Just my hands that work so well, and get me through the day
These hands that yet remind me, my youth has slipped away