This Hand Of Mine Poem by Edwina Reizer

This hand of mine with fingers five
allows these words to come alive.
The pointer finger makes accusations.
And who am I to judge?
Sometimes I feel that I’m just my thumb
fumbling around until I’m numb.
My pinkie finger oh so small
is the daintiest of them all.
My ring finger adorns the ring
that without wearing is a lonesome thing.
My tallest finger is arthritic now.
Age has done this thing somehow.

But together all these fingers of mine
Fashion words into a rhyme.