Two hands meet for the last time

One whose skin is soft, warm, and full of life

Yet it trembles in sorrowful distress

Like an autumn leaf about to fall from its tree

The other whose skin is loose, cold, and frail

Bones as hard as stone are shown and felt underneath

Still and nearly lifeless

While the other hand’s thumb gently strokes it

Like a silky feather on a dove’s wing

Although they are different, 

Both hands are delicate

As they hold on to each other 

With love for one another

Surrounded by nothing but peaceful silence 

And a warm summer breeze

Slightly soothing the tension beneath the skin 

Of the two hands

Minutes to hours these two hands hold

Until one’s final breath