My Father's Hands
Ink and Wash
My father's hands hold Jupiter's spots and the man in the moon,
and all of the silent power just underneath the surface.
My father's hands carefully craft the mahogany,
Moving with deliberation.
Life, death, and perfect creation are all at the tips of his fingers.
My father's hands are younger in the photograph
Holding his tiny girl in the air, so small.
His face so openly amazed; he loves to live.
My father's hands, thirty years later are still in rebellion.
Yet he gives me advice--his side of the story--
When no one else can even offer an insight without scaring me away.
My father's hands hit the table, his temper snaps
six seconds after he was laughing.
Everything he does is wise and childish all at once.
The worst thing he ever did was numb his own wound.
What's the point if it doesn't make you feel?
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