MY FATHER'S HANDS

                      By
               Bonnie Parham Lee
           Unpublished Copyright-1994



  Big rough hands warm and strong
    lifted me so I could see
    a parade of circus clowns and spangled gowns.  

  

  Way up there so very high
    I looked an elephant
    in the eye.




  Those same hands could play the guitar,
    pitch a baseball
    hard and far.
  


  They swung an axe
    and the chips would fly,
    then gentle a horse no one else would try.



  As I grew up I measured most every man
    by the shape and feel 
    of my father's hand.


 

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