My Father's Hands
From the earliest sign of movement,
Before even the first breath I took,
Open palms anxiously awaited
The soft kicks my tiny feet would give.
Mother always watching over
Those warm sensations felt by me,
Through each gentle touch
In the love of my Father's caring hands.
I grew within
As cautiously those palms crossed her skin,
Searching only to know how my day had been,
Through my hours away from him.
