The Heft of Praise

My hands, small things,

still feel that press.

This stack of books, a block,

a heavy stress.

The corner digs, a paper cut,

my forearm aches, my fingers shut.

Just hardcovers, stacked so high,

like anthems reaching for the sky.

But all I feel is strain and pull,

a memory, so dutiful.

My wrist still clicks, a subtle pain,

from holding that weight, again and again.