These Hands

Aching hands, aged and scarred Wrinkled, arthritic with callouses so hard Knuckles swollen from times being broken Now weathered and weak, quite painful to open In days of youth, they used to pick flowers From weeds in fields in warm summer showers An offering for mother, to make her smile Attempt to gain favor, a precocious child They worked in the garden, cleaned game and fish Chores of all kinds, when needed made fists Championed me well at work and play Pointed to heaven as I clasped them to pray Held hands with young girls, pleasured some ladies Which got me in trouble, then diapered some babies Efficiently used for support and guidance Tender for comfort and firm for defiance Broken bread with many, friends and foes Preachers, teachers even girlfriends ex beaux Never failing me once, whatever the use That is until now with this damn bottle of juice an original poem from the "poemdog" Daniel Turner