These hands fed my 93 year old grandmother
Last month after surgery.
They clean her teeth and smooth lotion on her skin
When I visit her.

These hands slide in to heavy leather gloves
to guide tools . . .
Wrenches, hammers, circular saw;
Creating with wood, wire or pipe.

These hands brushed the forehead of my mother
as she lay dying,
Wanting so badly to do more . . .
Knowing that was all I could do.

These hands have played the flute
Through lilting concertoes
And caressed the head of a conga drum,
Beating out hot rhythms.

These hands are working hands
And the work is varied.
Sometimes plumbing or electrical,
Sometimes carpentry.
Sometimes soothing fever or massaging tired limbs.
(These hands cannot lie in what they do).

These hands have loved tenderly and passionately:
Sometimes fiercely,
Sometimes hesitantly.

These hands have also reached with upturned palms.
They have balled up into fists and clawed at unseen monsters,
Held and rocked and comforted fear in the night.

These hands have dripped blood, been broken and betrayed.
Maybe these hands are soft for a carpenter.
But then,
I am more
Than just a carpenter.