My Father's Hands
As I look upon my father's hands
now a spotted, wrinkled road map,
that time, sun and sweat,
have hardened them to a painted tortoise shell.
Those, the same hands that I once feared,
and yet at the same time so gentle
that they held my tiny hand deep within.
I feared nothing as if he was the grace of God.
Will they still remember me?
My Father's hands.
9 April 2008
JoJo Bean
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-father-s-hands-2/
