As a small boy I used to stay,
close by my father, each and every day.
The one thing that stands out in my mind,
were my fathers hands, so strong and so kind.
They looked so worn, so wrinkled with age,
with lines and creases, as lines on a page.
I was often amazed at the things he could do
with those two hands and a simple tool.
He provided for his family, by working long and hard.
In the factory, in the fields, around the house and in the yard.
Through all this working, his hands formed with age,
his character written on each and every page.
He has been gone now for so many long years,
and I think of him often, shedding many tears.
And as I watch my son, I wonder if he sees,
the hands of my father when he looks at me.
