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My Father's Hands

My Father's Hands

As I look upon my father's hands

now a spotted, wrinkled road map,

that time, sun and sweat,

have hardened them to a painted tortoise shell.

Those, the same hands that I once feared,

and yet at the same time so gentle

that they held my tiny hand deep within.

I feared nothing as if he was the grace of God.

Will they still remember me?

My Father's hands.

9 April 2008

poem by JoJo Bean
Added by Poetry Lover
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