When I was young, I held my father’s hands
To cross the street and be swung on the curb,
But these days my hands have made other plans,
That sometimes in my heart they do disturb.
For your hands, they have seen abundant strife,
Where you’ve been and where you may be going,
The means of navigation through your life,
Your hand in mine, a beauty bestowing.
But these days, when I stretch my fingers out,
I feel an emptiness where stories should be,
I learn what learning must be all about,
I’ve locked my hands, and thrown away the key.
Now on my hands scars and marks, I embrace,
For hands tell stories much deeper than the face.