My Father's Hands

Sometimes…
I see my father’s hands in mine—
…not in my clasp
but in the flesh and form and line
…of span and grasp.
It’s not the look that came with age.
…I see that when
my lamp-lit fingers press a page
…or hold a pen.
But when my grip takes on a task
…or holds a tool,
my palms and fingers seem to ask
…if as a rule,
hard work alone gives hands their worth—
…not just their pain.
If so, then sweat must mix with earth
…as well as rain
to dampen new-sown dreams and seep
...into the soil
where hope takes root in things that keep
… and call for toil.

But who am I to talk of such…
…hard work I mean…
I’ve not attempted half as much
…as what I’ve seen,
and what I’ve done is only more
…or less child’s play
(like completing a morning’s chore
…that takes all day).
Occasionally, however,
…I’ve had to rise
to the call of some endeavor
…that otherwise
I’d never do…or even try.
…And when It’s done,
I stretch my arms toward the sky
…and setting sun,
and in the glow I almost see
…my father’s strength—
his hands are there (or seem to be)
…from an arm’s length.

(8/4 count)
© Copyright 1994, Patterns of Ink