MY HANDS
What have these hands been up to?
My Hands
Weathered and creased, these hands of mine, eighty years of tales they intertwine. From dawn till dusk, they toiled and spun, Beneath the glowing morning sun.
Sawing, mowing, planting seeds, Washing, cooking, meeting needs. Tasks manual and chores unending, Yet never once, their strength pretending.
Fathers' aid when others failed, Hands that calmed when children wailed. Scarred by time and tasks gone awry, Yet, they gently raised my angels high.
Two children held with boundless love, Guiding them through and above. Caressing my wife, my love so true, For fifty-seven years, these hands knew.
To my grave, these hands I’ll take, Clasped in prayer for blessings’ sake. With grace they’ve served, through life’s demands, These, forever, are my hands.
This poem resonates with the heartfelt journey YOUR hands have experienced.
Tell me about your hands, are they young, soft, experienced, tender, old, loving, caring, wrinkled…I’d really like to know!
Hands hold the pen pencil brush hammer nail cloth to create building polish publish post and fence territory that holds unites more hands that help hold life together. Survival can be tough to toil taking a rake to furrow seeds and pray that they grow. Hands together 🙏 pray for a higher power to help what the eyes cannot see. Belief to be free to choose but not harm others. I could go on. Message sent.
Our hands — what a wonderful thing to celebrate.
Thanks for another beautiful poem.