Left Hand Story

My old left hand
feels so strange today
with its new little bend
that limits
how well it holds
and hangs on

but with it I cradle the stone
I raised years ago
from the bed
of a pond
where I swam
daily for a summer
when I was twelve,

a white stone chased 
with black smears, laced
with mica stars, lifted
from the rich stew
at the bottom in 
the deepest part
of that pond the first time
I touched bottom, swimming
straight down to snatch it
and bring it back with me

to where I burst
through the surface into
late morning sun, holding it
tighter than I can now
with this weakened paw:
bursting up to the air back then
from the silted water,
taking a great breath
as I breached;
a browned, slim boy
coming into my own
so many years ago
that I cannot recall if I
was as alone then
as I am now:

neither slim nor browned,
not wholly alone in life
but solo in this moment,
hanging on
to what hard treasure
I may find 
in deep, unfamiliar
places.