Hands

Hands


I ponder my hands -- so calloused and rough,
a builder's hands -- all scarred and tough.
Each scar a story that begs to be told.
Some of shame, some adventures bold.

My hands, like my forefathers' -- Viking hands,
that hoisted sails in search of new lands.
The sleekest ships with pirates aboard,
no sanctuary from the Viking horde.

My hands lightly held a woman in dance.
My heart held hope that I might stand a chance
to see her again, perhaps take her home.
Her hands said yes when they started to roam.

My hands have cradled an infant so small --
a tiny bundle with no weight at all.
I rocked him 'till dawn so he could rest,
and cuddled him softly against my chest.

My new baby's hands, sweet smelling and moist --
The day of his birth, with pride we rejoiced
receiving this wonderful gift of life,
who's loved and cherished by me and my wife.

My son's hand I held when crossing streets,
when walking with him to soccer meets.
I now watch his hands while he plays guitar,
I clap with crowds when he's being a star.

My wife's hands are small when nestled in mine.
They tell the story of our special time
together for twenty years we shared.
Her hands I relied on -- they always cared.

Though calloused, rough and scarred they may be
my hands have journeyed a lifetime with me.
Imperfect for sure, and pretty they're not,
however, without them I'd still have a lot.

30 July 2010: Awarded Honorable Mention in the 68th Traditional Poetry Contest
Thanks Monty