you look at your hands and see the ravages
of a life long full of labor
wrinkles and lines and thick callouses
from years in fields and factories

i imagine you looking down at my tiny hands
years ago, when i was new in your arms
how you hoped that they would never know such
hardship, that i would never need to do such work

i want to hide my hands from you now
with all their evidence of my love for
rock and clay and sun; i know you
lament that i don’t moisturize enough

if there is never peace between the way
i choose to use my hands and all the dreams
you’ve dreamed on my behalf, i hope you’ll at least
know how thankful i am for the work your hands have done
and for these hands you’ve given me.


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