HANDS
They all called him handsome,
But it was not his face
I loved, though he was comely,
And his smile could erase
Any hint of gloom
That ever lingered on
In any darkened room.
It was his hands I loved,
Strong and long-fingered,
Hands that gripped an axe
With purpose and affection
To cut our yearly firewood,
Hands that drew the hoe
Between the beans and cornstalks
And arrowed our canoe
Around the foaming rocks
To where we had to go
To reach our evening campsite,
Hands that pounded tent stakes
To secure us for the night,
Loving hands that gave me
Memories of sweet delight.
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