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.
Aww such an emotional touching poem