Her little cherub hands picked up my own.
Between her thumb and forefinger she pinched
the paper thinness of the skin and cinched
it. “Grandma, why does it do that?” “When grown,

you’ll get to have some skin like this, my dear.”
Her doubtful eyes cast shadows on my age.
Instead of “older,” I prefer that “sage”
define me. No convincing would she hear.

I’ve always thought that farmers’ rugged hands
are gloved in beauty of a certain kind.
Deep wrinkles give them character, are lined
with fresh reminders of the soil and lands.

My granddaughter sees baby pink on hers,
cannot imagine they will ever look
experienced. To garden and to cook
leaves corrugations when she hoes and stirs.