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The Catch of The Hand

The hand reaches out grasping closing tightly,
What has grasped what has it gone for?
Did it choose by sight, from eyes what saw how it all looked?
Did it pick by the words, in the ears what they heard?
Not a worry, doesn't matter it's a thing hands must do,
Now to see what you got the hand it opens slowly,
Could be a rose, shrouded in thorns that are worn, till they're smoothed away,
Might be a day flower, here for a day gone the next,
Or maybe its that of an evergreen, tried and true little bumpy in places but sticks to you like glue,
Hopefully not weed in a flowers disguise, spreading lies through the shadows,
The point to this is, it's something hands must do,
Does it pick it right the first time, oftentimes not, sometimes yes,
It's what the hand must do,
The hand takes time to open, it handles its catch with care,
Till one day, sometimes after many, many a day, it needs to grasp no more,
Through the aid of eyes and ears, it sees and hears it's finally caught its final catch!