My Father's Hands

Lined and worn, his weathered hands
are miracles. They've met demands
that others would have paled before.
Such burdens that his strong hands bore.

When needed, they have shown the strength
to keep a sad world at arms length
and cradled strong and protectively
to shield his child from misery.

In youth they held a true love's face
and, in time, a child's embrace.
They were used to nurture and to guide
They were used with love and never pride.

Each line and mark upon their skin
is a testament to the heart within.
While outwardly they speak of duty
in my eyes they shine with beauty.

He's been gone now for many years
yet his memory still invokes my tears.
When I need comfort, as I grow older,
I feel an angel's touch on my shoulder.


Notes
Prompt:  Image
A entry in the Paper Pal Poetry contest.