It’s the story of a young finger grown old. But before it had grown old, it had grown. Simply grown.
Grown in size and in most else — the things that grow.
In other ways though it hadn’t grown.
It hadn’t grown more dexterous and likely it had gone the opposite way.
Longer stronger and stiffer.
Finger linger on my linen.
Fingerling a tiny kitten.
Finger in a soft pink mitten.
Tingling a finger thing.
String attached in the bin I think.
Feather liner a white horizon.
Fingers curled around and twirled,
Unfurled around the world.
’Til the time of ticking teat,
Turns to another’s tickling feet.
Churn a mother’s trickling feat,
Mashed beneath ten feet of feet.
