My hands appear graceful in the moonlight. No lines or flaws are visible. Bathed in the subdued glow they are ageless and poised. They seem small and lithe placed upon each other, relaxed, but at the ready. I turn them to to cup the moonlight, and for a moment, I hold the brilliance surrounded by the thick darkness. They are tools. Designed for so many purposes and tasks; too many to fathom and too many to name. They are weathered from the repeating toils of a lifetime, but still supple for the more delicate gestures. Blessed be my hands. Valuable to impart caresses, to pull with strength, and to write words that touch the mind where fingers cannot reach. But the most elusive and illuminating gift of these instruments is to pass around the moonlight I find resting in them. To sprinkle it where needed or to scatter it on the wind to alight where the fingers of fate desire.