Autumnal Fingers Poem by Namita Rani Panda

Once petal-soft
yet agile and prompt
those pretty slender
rosy fingers
full of purpose
in all chores
Now shake at the smallest tasks:
pulling a stubborn shutter,
twisting a tight-lipped jar,
wringing a cloth heavy with water

Each morning
they refuse to straighten
like the shy petals
that refuse to bloom
or the little child
curled up for warmth
against chilling cold

The fingers that were never idle
that have lived
a thousand honest lives—
kneading dough,
braiding hair,
wiping tears
knitting woolens for winters,
tending gardens,
running homes,
checking homework,
filling blackboards in a breath,
turning files,
operating computer
balancing family and office together
with little rest asking for ever
now unthinkably falter,
their lines fading
like the mist of memories
disappearing in the air
a soft reminder
that strength too dims,
and even the hands
that built a world with golden glow
must one day sure to slow.

Yet in every gentle tremor
Of these fragile fingers

is hidden a history of resilience—
Of lives nurtured tenderly
that knew only
to give away generously,
shape gracefully
that held lovingly,
fed fondly, built caringly,
and loved unconditionally

Old they may be,
tired they may grow,
but they steadily stand
as living testaments
now they are meant
for one last, nobler task—
to rise in blessing,
hushed and holy,
like the hands of a deity,
but reduced unfortunately
to a long-forgotten entity.