My Grandfather's Hands

My Grandfather’s Hands

My grandfather’s hands began to shake
There at the end, as if they cradled
Black-eyed die he never threw
For fear of their dead stare.

One hand would try to hold the other
But because the holder shook
The held was shaken
Even as it was taken.

I never saw my grandfather’s hands
Grow still until
Their fingers were braided like wicker
Across his motionless chest.

And even then they seemed to tremble
A little, though it may have been me.