My Father's Hands

My father’s hands, so rough and worn,

How gentle they’ve become.

They sooth the wailing grandchild

Whose peace has come undone.

Those same hands have helped to guide me

And taught me many things.

Like how to take pride in what I do;

The reward that hard work brings.

I didn’t always understand

What lay beneath the skin,

Misunderstood so many things

When I was just a kid.

In the constant struggle to provide,

Some words were left unsaid,

But always were they written there

In the lines upon his hands.

Years passed before I learned to read

All that they had to say

About the love they always held

Despite mistakes along the way.

Sometimes love is shown more by

What is done, and why, and how.

Truth is seldom found in words alone.

I understand that now.

In my father’s hands is love,

And in his face is pride

for who I am and who I’ll be

with my family at my side.

©T.Lynn Smith 2010

Written by request for Father's Day 2010