These hands with veins like aged snakes and wrinkles gray are getting old
But once these hands were small and smooth and held a father’s hand.
These hands have blocked the blows of man and faith that tried to confine.
But the vastness in these hands cannot be caged.
These hands have let go until all that was left was possibilities.
These hands have pounded words into the world. For words are power.
These hands have healed with gentle touch, ancient rock and warmed broth.
These hands are fierce claws that tore down walls like a cornered lioness.
These hands stained with pungent dirt dug deep for answers and planted miracles.
These imperfectly perfect hands are makers of hope.
These hands have buried the dead and cradled the new again and again and yet again.
Someday these hands will once again hold a father’s hands. And I will grieve.
And then I will have the hands that have lived a thousand lives and loved a million loves.
For hands are meant to be held and cherished and let go of when it is time.