Market Hands

She folded the plastic bag,

around the apples, red and green.

Her fingers, knotted, didn't lag,

even though the skin was thin.

Like parchment stretched, translucent,

over knuckles thick with time.

Each movement slow, but consequent,

a quiet, practiced rhyme.

She smoothed the plastic, made it tight,

a careful, gentle seal.

Her gaze was steady, calm and bright,

knowing what was real.

No hurry in the small task there,

just the steady work of bone.

A quiet competence, laid bare,

working all alone.