Lost Dexterity

This tiny needle, silver, bright,

feels heavy now, a clumsy dart.

My fingers shake, a sudden fright,

can't find the hole, to play my part.

A button's off, a simple chore,

to thread the eye, a perfect line.

But I keep missing, asking for more

patience, for this hand of mine.

The thread, a knot, then pulls too tight.

My eyes feel blurry, a watery sheen.

I could do this in the fading light,

when I was eight, small and keen.

Now, the blunt tip catches skin,

a dull red prick. A stupid, small defeat.

The shirt lies torn, where I begin

to know my hands are not complete.