My Father's Hands

My father's hands,

Like his heart, like his voice,

I know them;

I would recognize them in any room of hands

Without voices or faces.

Those hands held

My hand when I was afraid,

Gave comfort when I was sick,

Fed me when I was hungry,

Gripped an axe that split

Wood to warm me;
Tied flies, baited many a hook.
Cast a rod for rainbow trout
Pulled on canoe paddles down the river.

They planted seedling trees,

Trees I can walk under today.
With the waning wear of work in the woods,

They are softer, less calloused now;

They are supple from prayers, holding grandchildren,
Turning the pages of his Bible,
Or a field guide to birds, bees, or trees,

Stroking Mama's hair 'till she sleeps

Breathes calm—reassured of his presence.

Those hands—Daddy's hands

 I love them.