I
saw them today for the last time.
Those hands, gnarled by age and weathered
By a lifetime of work on the farm;
Hands that spanked when counsel went unheeded;
Hands that held his granddaughter calmly
As he searched for the right words
To bless and name such a new soul;
Hands that lifted me from danger
When I was younger and alone;
Hands
that rested on my shoulder
As he introduced me proudly as his son.
And today, when family members bowed
To kiss his face in fond farewell -
I alone chose instead to rest my hand on his,
Aware that they would continue to lift me,
Guide me, and perhaps, one day
Rest again on my shoulder as he says proudly
"This
is my son." --
Steven C. Stoker Copyright 1986 @
Used
with permission of the author
The
above poem was written for his father who passed away in 1986. May God
Bless him for giving the world such a talented son.
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