PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My daddy's hands were twisted

From many a hard day's toil.

The knuckles large and bulbous

And his fingernails were soiled.



But I knew when I would watch them,

Always busy, never still...

They got that way by honest work,

Keeping our larder filled.



Sometimes bruised and bleeding,

Sometimes scrubbed and clean,

But always ready to meet the need

When days were bitter and lean.



I watched them as a young girl,

All wind-burned, roughened, and bent,

From too many years at holding the plow,

Long before childhood was spent.



They hoed the garden come morning.

The carried the water at noon.

At evening they'd lift me and tuck me,

To the crooning of some nameless tune.



His hair now is white and he's older.

His steps are much frailer and slow.

But his hands never changed in the aging.

They're the hands that my memories know.



Lord, could I have one petition?

One favor especially for me?

Just once 'ere we come to the parting...

Let those hands fold in sweet prayer to Thee!