... your story about Grandma's hands reminded me of my Dad's hands.
Gnarled
The hands reach out, once more again,
Adept at dealing with tasks at hand.
Gnarled, and twisted, but so strong,
And used to setting right what’s wrong.
Could he have been a surgeon? No,
Though dextrous, these fingers were not so,
With delicate strength of fine control,
And subtle movements in a larger whole.
His were the hands that swung a pick,
Or axe, and metal tools held by a stick,
The swinging arm, the muscles bunched,
No music from the things he crunched.
He beat the world down all around,
To make his place, and stand his ground.
No task was easy from his birth,
His was a world of stubborn earth.
And yet, in gross examples of his art,
He showed the love deep in his heart.
His strength was guided in its course,
By limits to the use of force.
And when the oak was split, and planed,
He felt the smoothness that he’d gained.
Removing roughness was his art,
He practiced it upon his heart.
He could have held a wolf at bay,
And yet I well recall the day,
His little dog was taken ill,
The tears from every eye did spill.
And though his strength was that of ten,
He could not work his magic then,
No tools he had would fill the bill,
His gnarled and twisted hands lay still.
The roughness of the world struck back,
And proved that it could still attack.
How like a splinter one small pet,
Will not allow one to forget.
His work is done now, his hands rest.
It’s now my turn to pass the test.
I’ve set out on my own grand quest.
His work is done now. His hands rest.
NicknamedBob . . . . February 20, 2005