The young man’s hands were slender, quick and strong,
Composing sonnets to his unknown muse,
Creating worlds in drama and in song
To challenge the emotions and amuse.
The busy writer’s hands were stained with ink,
Ingrained with words, skin cracked and raw with rhyme;
The scratching of the pen spurred him to think,
The melting wax of candles told the time.
The hands that once were softened by caress
Sometimes were stiff and talon-like with age,
Eager to hold and often poised to bless,
Faltering fingers fought to fill a page.
Hands that conjured worlds with paper and quill,
Belonged to Shakespeare – also known as Will.
© Kim M. Russell, 2016