My Hands

They have seen many places,

They have touched many things,

They have felt many gambles,

And they have fought many battles.

These hands are small, wrinkled, and fragile

From early on these hands were clean

They felt love from the Cline family

4 years later, that chapter would close

Who would have thought from 4 years old

These rugged hands would gradually corrode.

As her mothers 7 year marriage, came to an end,

These small, naive hands will comprehend

The life on the streets and the touch of a man.

These hands saw pain, struggle, and fight

They felt blood, tears, and fright.

From snow to hemp, spirits to school books

These 12 year old hands were wanted for good looks

They were taught to exchange pocketbooks for a good nook.

Home to home these hands traveled

At 15, a baby unraveled

Her soft sweet skin, black silky hair

These hands had to prepare for warfare.

These hands linked into a “family”

They held a diploma, and a baby

Held a cosmetology license and a healthcare registry

Yet these hands were given to me, temporarily

When these hands are allowed to turn cold

It may not be when they are old

But my children’s hands will withhold

an essence of abundant soul