the old man's hand on the arm of the chair
is the same hand that held the sword,
that held the plow,
that held the child,
that held the pen,
that held nothing
for long hours in the dark
when holding nothing
was the hardest work.

now the hand rests.
now the hand has forgotten everything
except the shape of resting
and the resting is so deep
it looks like prayer
and the prayer is so deep
it looks like sleep
and the sleep is so deep
it looks like the hand
has finally become
what it was always practicing:
open.