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Weathered Hands
by Robert M. Topp

These hands have grown weathered
From exposure to the sun.
They derive character
From their features, rough and worn.

Closer scrutiny shows
A much deeper quality. 
For within those digits
Resides soft agility.

These hands do not implore
There is no right to demand.
There's earnest supplication
When I touch you with my hands.

These hands reach out to you
To find love and life renewed.
My touch seeks out your grace
And therein become imbued.
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Poem ID: 5523   Poem Posted: 6/13/1998
Viewed: 13042  Voted On: 138  E-mailed: 23  Commented On: 1
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Copyright , 06/11/98, Robert Milner Topp  all rights reserved by the author.
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