Four short lines carry a quiet idea: when something ends, what stands out is how different everything was. The speaker looks at the close of a life, or of a relationship, and sees "abundance / of distinction," a wealth of small particularities that made each person or thing itself. The comparison to human hands is simple and striking. No two are alike, and we rarely think about it until we are asked to.
That thought leads to the last line, which is blunt: "Every loss a loss." It sounds almost like a refusal to console. The speaker won't lump losses together or treat them as one general sadness, and won't suggest that one can replace another. Each is its own absence, because what was lost can't be duplicated.
The mood is still, restrained, and a little stark. There is grief here, but it is expressed through careful observation rather than outcry, which makes the final line land with more weight.