MY HANDS

What would we do without them?

My Hands

Weathered and creased, these hands of mine, Eighty years of tales they intertwine. From dawn till dusk, they’ve 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.