old hands

Old wrinkled hands held me up

helped me from the water

coughing, frightened

new naked soul.

While we walked down

a periwinkle street in a picture

from your past, a message-

never be afraid to fall

you will stand without a waver

with the hands beneath your feet.

And took did I their strength of age.

The wrinkles hills of green

fertile with hope of growth

of a grandson's dreams.

And there I planted

to grow from the hands

ascending to the heavens.

The soul that smiled

and the eyes that laughed

as a child in the treetops

now says to them:

Rest tired hands

you have earned your reprise.

Withered, shriveled under my feet

your ground I have swallowed

but still strong you held

like the era that colors your wonder,

Beautiful old wrinkled hands!

Talk to me with wavering voices

tell of your stories, your secrets

your heroes, your desires. I'll sit.

Hours are nothing when hearing from you.

Maybe then some strong young hands

fresh as a bright summer moon

orange in a foggy sky

can lift you to the height

you lofted me long ago.