Hands

Hands (traditional Shakespearean sonnet, with intentional rhyme scheme but no iambic pentameter)

Hands, they are vessels of love;    

wrinkled or smooth, old or new.    

They may, sometimes, shove;    

but they, almost always, help ease the blue.     

As we grow older,    

we give more love.     

Sometimes our hands get wrinkled and colder,    

but always warm up, like the singing of a morning dove.

Wrinkled hands have delivered more to the younger,    

the younger, just learning how.     

Older hands drifting ever so slowly to eternal slumber;    

but they march on, anyhow.    

Hands are love,    

and they always forget your lacks-thereof.