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Hands

My hands are wrinkled now
white and cold
like my grandfather's were

when I was a young man
with strong, tanned hands
driving in tent pegs

hands that became sooty
rebuilding a firepit
to hold a small bright flame

hands that brewed tea
after a hard
sunwashed afternoon

running the canoes
downriver
to the falls.


-- Mi Fa-So

Hands © D.M. Wideman, 2016




Main Gate | Mi Fa-So Poems | Copyright