Lissome

I cannot save the world,

That's for a bigger hand.

My little hands were molded for you. 

Optimized to your every need.

Let my phalanges cup your grief,

Be the extra fingers to complete your sum.

Our knuckles intertwined for the hurdles

Enclasped to draw strength,

Pass down through the lines on my palm, 

From the callaused hands of an aged lineage. 

These hands will never be folded in hiding, 

You will not find them slumbering on a face of scorn.

Here they are lissome, enthused for  your grasp.

photo credit: pixabay.com