“Hands”

Poem of the Day, Tuesday, November 26, 2024

My oldest granddaughter's hands when she was a baby

“Hands”*

Hands are different for each person.
Think of the calloused and withered
on old farmers who bear the brunt
of cold winters and early mornings,
fixing fence, pulling calves and lambs,

soothing the tears and scraped knees
and shins, and caressing their dear wives’
faces during graduations and funerals.
A baby’s hands are prim and petite,
freshly from God who pressed them

to His lips before He reluctantly
yet joyously let go before they forgot…..
Mothers caress these tiny hands, imagine
what they will do as their babies grow up.
Will they be smudged in ink as writers

or soot-covered hands of coal miners?
Or broken and stiff hands of athletes?
Or missing a finger because of a woodsman’s saw?
Or the firm hands of a hard worker?
Or the applauding hands of a teacher or mentor?

Or the warm hands of a missionary or confidant?
Hands can turn out so differently,
depending on our life’s choices.
Yet little hands are wrinkled in cute ways
and grow taut and strong and viable

as they age and begin playing
with little trucks or baby dolls,
or digging sand at the beach
or throwing clods at cows
and dogs that saunter by.

Perhaps, they will even pick up
pebbles strewn along the path of life,
roll them over and over, analyzing
them until they toss them
into the water or back

where they came from or keep them
hidden in their pockets for safekeeping,
knowing they are their special find.
In time, we will hold the gnarled,
ancient hands of our spouses, mothers,

fathers, and grandparents, maybe even
children now lying quietly in the winter of life.
We take them into ours, caress them
like they once belonged to a baby,
wondering about all the work they have done.

Once strong and stout and calloused,
now shrunken, weak, and weathered.
I take their hand, touch it to my face,
knowing the powerful influence they have been
in my life as I used to place mine in theirs,

 
as we walked along the paths of life,

knowing I was safe and protected
as long as I held that hand,
the one now I do not want to let go
but hope that mine will be the same

in time when my children take mine

in theirs, remember the times
when mine clasped theirs
and kept them secure and shielded
and steady, so they would not fall.

*Inspired by Riley and Hope Abraham