look at my hand, this is and honest hand.
It bares the work of a lifetime, it's beautiful isn't it?
Hands can't lie, they always tell the tale of one's path to the present;
if the hand is too smooth, it has been another's back that has dealt with the earth.
And if the hand is too coarse, it is only the earth that it understands.
Not trying to be deep. But it brings to mind the images of my father's hands and mine.
And the curious intricacies when our hands connect. One smooth one course, one blooming one yielding, one fresh one rich. My father, the man who brought me to life, the man to educated me, the man who loved me unconditionally. I am so thankful, that I have my father.
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