Poetry

by Scribe Leaf Library · 1 min read · 0 views

My father's hands were maps of every field he'd walked with a scythe before the combines came, each callus telling stories fingers healed into scars too plain to need a name. I used to think those hands were rough with work, a burden carried, not a gift received — until I watched them, gentle with a bird fallen from its nest, and understood, relieved, that strength and gentleness were never foes in hands that spent a life learning both: to break the soil, and still, when harvest slows, to cup a small life carefully, unclothed of all that toughness, holding something small as if it mattered more than all of it — than all.