Whose hands are these? They can’t be mine.

They have cracks and lines, and little gray hairs entwined.

Fingers once so straight are now bent, and the skin is no longer smooth.

Whose hands are these I ask myself, as my thoughts wander back to school.

Back then they would lift heavy books, never faltering nor yielding when I asked them to climb.

Whose hands are these, as I stare at them, I know they can’t be mine.

The sun has left its mark on them. They are brown from its golden rays,

when I toiled away on the family farm during my cotton growing days.

Whose hands are these when I compare them to someone’s young.

Mine used to look like those when my song was not so sung.

These are my hands and they still work, albeit not so readily.

I do not care, for they are there, to do all things for me.

By Brad Robb….For Mrs. Dixie Ramey