My Father's Hands

My Father’s Hands

It’s been a while since I last saw them,

But the memory lingers close within.

I watched them change over the years,

As they grew old seemingly seared.

At first they were smooth and strong,

And nothing prevailed that they took on.

For their strength was new with courage brave,

Used for many things in the mornings to shave.

They worked in a place that many shunned,

From morning till night, they never succumbed.

Long days and longer nights they labored,

To provide for the home and never subsided.

They rest now in a meadow far from me,

A place I travel to, a place I seldom see.

But when I go there to visit paying my respects,

I recall my father’s hands that kept me in check.

Since that time when things were new,

I’ve seen my own hands revealing sinew.

Now when there’s more behind than ahead,

There’s a likeness between the living and the dead.

In time, like all others who walk this way,

There’ll come a time goodbye we’ll say.

For it wasn’t meant to permenantly remain,

But to surrender lifting hands glory to proclaim.