MY HANDS

They have held beauty and youth,
Raged fists of anger and broken tooth,

Planted seeds barehanded in soil to grow,
Worked stone to find what sculptors know,

Been numbed by the cold of a winter’s snow,
Felt the sharp ache of a hammer’s blow,

In need have waved and thumbed a ride,
Firmly held over heart and saluted with pride.

Wiped tears from cheeks when my children cried,
Held my father’s head when he died.

Grasped after love and caught its pain,
Caught water from a summer’s rain,

Raised above my head at night in prayer,
These hands well- used are almost there.