Phalanges

Some are gnarled and crooked
And on bad days tend to shake
Perhaps weary from working
On the lives they helped to make

Some are stiff and pointed
At the things that they disown
But rarely turn or soften
For judging, they are prone

Some are small and grasping
Feeling out creation
Each poke and pinch and grab
Their form of salutation

Some are large and blistered
From toiling through long days
The providers of the basic
Sustaining life in many ways

All have great potential
To make, and heal, and grow
But only in the doing
Can the wielder truly know