Barked limb, outstretched hand reaching
A gnarled grasp for the approaching night.
Wrist stemming from the sun wrought ground
Up toward the spilling light.
Cultivated fingers, worn by time,
And bent crooked by the wind,
Shed a sleeve of fingertips
To truly touch the sky again.
On the quiet hilltop curve,
Hunched beneath a golden haze,
Extending digits slowly out,
Unfurling against the weight of age.
Naked of the quaking green,
Stroking the distant stars,
And remembering old rooted dreams
Of radiant silver bars.
Cool against the wrinkled skin,
The moon blows a silent kiss
That lands upon the pained knuckles
With ever tender bliss.