Episode of Hands

The unexpected interest made him flush.Suddenly, he seemed to forget the pain,–Consented–and held outOne finger from the others.

The gash was bleeding, and a shaft of sunThat glittered in and out among the wheels,Fell lightly, warmly, down into the wound.

And as the fingers of the factory owner’s son,That knew a grip for books and tennisAs well as one for iron and leather,–As his taut, spare finger wound the gazeAround the thick bed of the wound,His own hands seemed to himLike wings of butterfliesFlickering in sunlight over summer fields.

The knots and notches–many in the wideDeep hand that lay in his,–seemed beautiful.They were like the marks of wild ponies’ play,–Bunches of new green breaking a hard turf.

And factory sounds and factory thoughtsWere banished from him by that larger, quieter handThat lay in his with the sun upon it.And as the bandage knot was tightenedThe two men smiled into each other’s eyes.