His Hands

His Hands

she told him

not to hide his hands

but a life of work

had left their marks

so she said his hands

were tough

hardened

hands that knew

work

hands that knew

her skin

deftly

she said his hands

were gentle though

leaving her comfortable

an uncommon softness

to cover the tough

so she’d surrender

to the naked after

as she felt his hands

and she’d notice

the remnants left

beneath the nails

she said she didn’t mind

hands get dirty sometimes

his hands weren’t afraid

so she’d lay still

squeezing time

she felt his hands

she said too much

she couldn’t stop

so she said his hands

were strong

yielding a safeness

his hands could hold

so she left herself bare

and she left words unsaid

his hands knew

and she’d lay awhile

lingering

she said this wasn’t

like her

she said she’d miss

his hands

It's been awhile since I posted a poem so here one is. I'll leave it without explanation. Sadly, my hands are growing soft from the lack of manual labor. I do look forward to really working again and toughening my hands.