Two or three months back <br />my little finger caught in a closing hinge; <br />could have been worse… <br /> <br />since then, the nail’s been <br />every shade of blackish-brown, <br />living some ancient, primitive life, of battered claw, <br />or shellfish, bruised by rock and ocean, <br />yet preserving, in its shell <br />such tender life <br />as heroes live to save.. <br /> <br />every day, I watch this primeval drama <br />as, secretly, beneath the horny shell <br />so measured in its protectiveness, <br />dying slowly like a hero who enfolds <br />a baby life within his arms, <br /> <br />secretly beneath, there grows a new pink life; <br />its promise makes me look afresh <br />at its neighbour nails; and marvel <br />at the delicacy of their shade <br />from crescent moon to nail so practical.. <br />what lacquer could ever hope to match <br />this living beauty? <br /> <br />and I fall silent, still; humbled at this scene <br />that brings the universe’s law and love <br />here to my finger-end. No name of god, <br />or evolution, or Intelligent Design, <br />may encompass my humility; <br />I who know not my own finger-end; <br />humility so still, it’s even beyond prayer. <br />If praise can be one, without form - <br />then this is praise.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/universe-at-finger-tip/
