Grandpa's Hands

A Poem

Grandpa’s hands are scarred from all the gardens that he’s raised.

They had deep grooves with woven paths of dirt and grime,

Lined with sediments fossilized by the accumulated sands of time.

Granite palms formed by the thorny bristle’s bite,

Surrounded by mounds of calloused blisters

Grounded down by the patient tides.

Weathered fingers still gripped

The shovel’s head

Eager to dig into the vein

Of reality’s mysterious thread.

Sweat drops of duty still dripped from his determined brown,

Watering the seeds before the plow.

Despite the pain, he never griped of this strenuous deed,

For he knew his purpose and lived his creed.

A planter.

A cropper.

Scarred hands

Of a man that feeds.

A sower.

A reaper.

Scarred hands

Of a man set free.

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This poem was written on my notepad on a flight from Denver to Charlotte last Sunday. The first line was given to me by a man named Bob who sat across and behind me on our flight, thanks for the inspiration and the great stories.

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