I took a road trip along the lines of my palms, gray and worn, hands of experience, wonderful rivers, dark valleys, and mountains still to climb
They are blue collar hands, life’s struggle encrypted A past of suffering, nicotine-stained with worry, Rodin-sculptured, tarnished with loses, and prideful mistakes
Hands once strong, formed of white marble, able to carry heavy burdens, dig deep with shovels, now weakened and knotty, unable to grip and bend
Hands don’t lie, they are nature’s remnants that grow like roots of a tree Mellowed through the years, my hands no longer let anger conquer love, not afraid to reach for help in dealing with life’s uncertainty.