My Father’s Hands by Erica Romkema

my father’s hands

take the brunt
of winter, find
the wind, snow,
biting ice; battle

fences, cattle,
cars, firewood,
another drift
in the lane.

they crack.
tight, slick, red
and even black-
blue in places.

as a child i held
them at the table,
traced the cracks
with my thumb.

Erica Romkema

                                                                                                                                             Photo by Jon Zowalki

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