The Measure of Our Hands Poem, by gray0328, at My poetic side

We wake each day with empty palms,

fingers fumbling for fleeting rewards,

a paycheck folded into tight corners,

proof that effort can fill a fridge.

But beyond the clinking of coins,

there's a language unspoken, unseen,

it's in the way a smile lingers,

stretching across another's heavy day.

You cannot sip from a silver spoon,

and taste the salt of shared kindness,

cannot cash in the gift of laughter,

or deposit the warmth of holding hands.

We stitch a life in quiet gestures,

in moments freely given, freely taken,

an invisible thread pulling us closer,

to what it means to truly live.

Comments +

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.