A Mark On the Hand in The Hilary Letters

The hands are dry and weak. This place I’ve come to be.
This place in the center of solitude and silence. The barren land that surrounds me.
Peoples opinions and movements toward a better future have consistently come too late. Their voices and actions ground to sand and dust that encircle me and my host of grievous memories.
The apples in the orchards wrinkle and wither before they reach the ground. The season goes unnoticed.
Beauty wades on. It may not exist any longer.