The Grip

His fingers were always half-cupped
the nails dirty, horny and split,
the knuckles over-large and gnarled.
He perched his hands in his lap,
as if lifting them was a chore.
Those hands were the sigil of his life,
abused by weather and rough work.

But then he stood up in the boat,
picked up his fly rod and cast,
line undulating like a dancer,
his callused palm and fingers
caressing the weathered cork,
and I understood that this
at least was still his to enjoy,
hands whole enough for grace.