Knuckles White

She’s peeling apples at the counter,

the knife a blur, a steady hand.

But it’s her thumb I’m watching, found

its roughness like familiar land.

The skin gone tough from dishwater’s bite,

from dirt that settled in her nails.

The blue veins mapping, stark and bright,

a history of daily trails.

She never rests, she just keeps going,

each task a knot she has to tie.

And I just watch the time outflowing

behind the work beneath her eye.