A New Hand

It is a long road from brink to brink--
An episode a night, a softly steaming cup to drink steadily from
It is no surprise that once the first apple falls--
far and fast enough to fly--that once the grass is littered with fruit, gaily dancing men and women
procure these blushing children and brand them anew

There is a great loss in those who bore it first, once deals are done and taken from your
hands, borne again in a new grasp, that of an open palm,
keeping you at arm's length instead of tightened clasp

These fingers are loosely curled now, once you reach the end--
there is nothing to be ashamed of, here, nothing waiting for the bending, 
the breaking
Nothing to mend--