my hands

"My Hands"
I love it when my hands are rough with work
and are bleeding from thousand of tiny cuts.
When they recoil from the wind
and sting in deafening protest.
When they hang off my knees
in a posture that could only
belong to something that knows true exhaustion.
They are on the verge of giving up,
so they never have to work again,
but they keep going out of habit
more than anything else.
They sit there and pray with silent desperation
for the pain to end.
They're not asking for soon,
but just a sign
that one day it will be over.
I love these weathered hands,
These seemingly rough hands
that are capable of such softness.
These hands that can show
better than words
the condition of my soul