There’s something somber about a hand at rest,
with nothing to write and nothing to grasp.
Young hands get so tired of doing nothing
they turn into old hands
that shake incessantly.
But a hand at rest could be so peaceful
if only the mind was too;
a hand in meditation
an aid in mediation.
A hand that has known toil
will know the pleasure of stillness
when it pauses to reflect on its scars.
The rougher the hand is,
the softer the mind.
Because when the young hands learn how to have something to do
they can hold their breath
without forming a fist.