Hands
Hands are interesting appendages, and, on this subject, I
will linger,
Beginning with tiny baby hands that wrap around a finger,
White and pure as the fresh fallen snow,
Soft and delicate with anticipation to grow,
Sticky child’s hands with dirty fingernails,
Playing outside, doing cartwheels and picking up snails,
Completely covered in fingerpaint or spaghetti,
These hands need experience, so they are ready,
To become adolescent hands, strong and independent,
Mothers don’t know where all the time went,
Then wedding hands with lean long fingers and golden bands,
These are graceful and delightful and hopeful hands,
But the best hands of all are the ones that are old,
With deep creases and wrinkles from years never foretold,
Callused, crippled with arthritis, and in a weakened stage,
Leathery and toughened from hard work and age,
And if they could talk, what stories they would tell,
Of all the things they have done, and done so well,
Grandparents hold onto their grandchild’s hand,
And the cycle continues like turning an hourglass of sand.
Tammy Harvey
Written: 2/28/2023
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