Well Used Hands

As I gaze at my garden grimed fingers
I think of my work-worn dad.
To care for his loved family,
Calloused hands were all that he had.

"They guided a plow and planted a row.
They harnessed a horse and milked a cow.
They chopped the wood that stoked the fire;
These hands no lady would admire.

They grew the crops that brought the cash.
They carried the water for Monday's wash.
They clasped sometimes to pray for rain
And patted a child who was in pain.

They reached in pocket and found a sweet
For daughter who wiggled on hard pew seat.
If distraught Mama need a pair
Of extra hands, my dad's were there.

He cut his nails as short as he could
But they still splintered like kindling wood.
My mama's hands were tapered and slim,
But I inherited hands from him."

As I kneel in the dirt of my garden
I'm aware that without fail
When I strip off protective gloves
I'll reveal a broken nail.

My daddy now labors in Heaven
But I know he understands
Why a well tended, thriving garden
Wins out over cared for hands.

By: Joyce Johnson 8/7/07