Instant relief when itches flare,
Those chewed down nails at the ends of your hands
Still scratch everywhere they’re needed.
With aeons of practice those hands learn,
Strumming the air guitar and tapping into the wind,
Turning one into a rock star, if only in your dreams.
In slower times there’s nothing to do
But restlessness leads to trouble which is why
Idle hands are the Devil’s plaything.
Some hands become acquainted with blisters
Which are hopefully accompanied by a thing called work.
It’s the manual kind that usually involves a shovel.
Work evolves and leaves time for love.
That love steals your heart,
Followed closely by hands volunteering gentle caresses.
In time, your hand may be captured and bound
With one finger wrapped in precious metal,
A spiritual chain with that one link called a wedding ring.
From the very beginning those hands knew how to eat
And with proper care and attention
They sometimes learn to cook a thing or two.
When not holding a frying pan, the broom will do
As it seems that the house never tires of being cleaned
Or keeping hands busy with dusting or scrubbing.
Escaping the house chores could put you in the car
Excitement flows with both hands on the steering wheel.
But driving takes on new meaning with precious cargo.
Your love may one day place a newborn child in your hands,
Completely dependent on your care
With fresh skin, pink in comparison to yours.
Looking down. They changed overnight.
Your hands are worn with callused memories
And wisdom in the form of wrinkles.
Aches come when the weather changes
And perhaps your hands move a little slower
But they still get you through your day.
Most important of all, those hands still love,
They still hold hands with your lover,
And they still guide your children no matter their age.