Your hands remind me of hermit *****.
Fingers fat and tiny
Curling inwards into your cuffs
Shying from the world and the cold
But blossoming to grasp at joy
To grab at a slice of bread
Or point at an excavator.

As you turn a year older
Your hermit ***** will move into bigger shells
And they'll start to reach for bigger things
Like pencils and books and controllers
Or perhaps ball into fists of rage
Or splay out to throw ***** and high fives.

Some day
These hermit *****, nestled in cuffs of linen and silk
Will open doors and sign contracts
Pluck strings of guitars and hearts alike
And hold its own pair of hermit *****

Even so
I hope they'll still fan out to hold my hands
Warmly and tightly as before
Though they fully enclose mine.