My Father’s Hands

A poem of artisans

Photo of my hand today and trusty hammer of 51 years!

I look and see it could be me
I have my father’s hands
and remember well and can tell
they’re marked by the same brands.

Like my Dad I’ve always had
a gift that’s heaven sent
to make, create and alleviate
furnish and augment.

A piece of fine furniture
a boat a house or drive a nail
or an adobe-built abode
Persevere and rarely fail.

I can see my hands are weathered now
with veins and stains that show
exactly like my fathers were
I remember, and I know.

It brings back many memories
and how I miss him still
all the things he taught me
and his motto “yes we will”.

I remember when he used to say
back when he was my age
I wish that I was young like you
though to me he was a sage.

And just like him I’ve now grown old
I’m reminded of the man
who stood tall and that’s not all
I have my father’s hands.

As years fly by and disappear
I count blessings I’m still here
I watch my hands and understand
his memory is always near.

©

David Rudder
6th August 2020

Thank you for reading.