My Father's Hands

My father’s hands bore the marks of his vocation,

cracked and creased, dark from years of grease and oil,

hard hands and a soft touch that worked the engines

and machines of other men’s livelihood, uncomplaining

through the late hours and early mornings, time

away from family, away from home, away from us;

and his soul, too, a gentle soul, bore these same marks,

uncomplaining, hard work and family, respect and honesty, 

temperance and fidelity and kindness, a patient man,

always faithful, full of faith, full of love.