My hands are now old

Today is the day
I don’t know how it happened
Maybe it’s the low-slung light
Of the late afternoon

Cumulation of being shoved into the earth
Weeding and harvesting
Tool handles polished by use
Knicked and scratched time and again
Time!
Morning has long passed
Matured into midday
That too did not linger
The creases and folds
That once was smooth
Enhandst by the low-slung light
Of late afternoon

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