My Father's Hands
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
poem by JoJo Bean
Added by Poetry Lover
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