Sunday, April 07, 2013

Father's Hand

Father’s Hand
By David C. Price

His hand touched his sweetheart’s burdened brow, then the new born baby’s gown
Other hands joined his, gently bouncing her in white, as he promised spiritual sight
Then raised her high for all to see, his link to eternity.

Soft hands surrounded her, holding her tight as thunder shook the sky,
He held her cheek to his chest whispering warm words, promising a peaceful night
She raised her glance to see flashing lights, while held in the hands of serenity.

Her tiny fingers wrapped around the bars, eager for her first ride,
She trusted his grasp holding her tight until, released, she pedaled out of sight.
He raised his hands high, freedom realized, to celebrate her victory.

To the bus he gripped her hands tight but there let her go, turned, as salty rain drops fell.
She peeked o’er the yellow edge, full of eagerness and fear from a sleepless night
He raised his hand to wave goodbye, then blew a kiss from a palm of misery.

His hands held her tight in waist deep water, let her down and lifted her up white and wet
The hands of a dove descended to her braided hair as she received the gift of God’s own light.
She raised shaking hands, but on his turn embraced him tenderly.

At her first date they danced with a formal hand, a squeeze saying love,
Before his touch was replaced by a suitor’s stir beneath the crepe and lights.
He raised his empty hand to wipe away a tear, overwhelmed by his daughter’s beauty.

Slowly his hands filled her moving box, tremors of losing revealed
Her future in another state, she put her hands to the wheel and drove into the night.
He raised his hand to her slumbered space and opened a door to an empty bed’s solemnity.

It would be months until their hands touch again, his heart stroked by her absence.
At the veil and alter a kiss and a hug, yet another’s touch held her tight.
To a tin-canned tail he raised his silent prayers that new hands would honor her dignity.

Always his daughter she would be, though his tremored touch a mem’ry.
Those hands, large and rough, gentle in their touch, come back each day in might
When she raises her child high for all to see, their link to eternity.

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