The Other Hand

This other hand, it knows its place,

to hold, to steady, show no trace

of all the times it took the strain,

through sun and cold, through falling rain.

The pot of soup, it held it fast,

a tremor, small, that wouldn't last.

My thumb, a scar, a childhood fall,

a map of tiny histories, for all

to see, if they looked close enough.

This quiet worker, never rough.