Crooked Hands

Crooked hands, gnarled fingers
Look much like burled trees
The stress of storms or insects
Other forms of injury
Causing calluses to grow there
Protecting tree beneath
The lumpy areas hardened
Through sufferings etched deep

And yet these lumps when opened
Reveal beauty therein hid
The hardened shell protective
Of swirled patterns laying in
Witness of adjustments
Growing o’re and round the wound
Has made the tree more beautiful
When one truly sees the wood

Wrinkled fingers, hands and faces
Recording tracks of time
Chiseled channeled places
Hard work and tears sublime
Each a lifelong story
Explicit in detail
If only they could speak aloud
Tell all the hard won tale

2 thoughts on “Crooked Hands

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