Hands

What hands are to me.

Young yet still seeming old
delicately they move and mold
with beauty aroused.

For things unknown or too large to handle
slow deliberate touch lights a candle
as faint brushes seem insensitive.

Anticipation meaning to perspire
icy while burning hot with desire
sensations have found a place to thrive.

Weathered and torn
having taken journeys forlorn
they persist deeply calloused.