My Grandpa's Handprint Poem by Yekaterina Bezpalaya

These hands have touched everything,
as so far goes the truth.
The deep, ridged scars,
are the obvious proof.

These hands have reached for the waxy ruby skin of an apple,
the first harvested pick off the tree.
These hands rubbed the turmoil engine,
coaxing forth that long drawn out purr.

These hands have ran a finger over the dust on the oakshelves in the attic,
a packrat's paradise.
These hands have picked up that furious smelt that lay hidden in the obscure waters,
acknowledging its final defeat.

These hands have passed over mine,
closing me into a warm embrace,
and displaying a priceless smile.
These hands have been across the world,
loving life,
leaving a handprint on my heart,
and sealing it with a kiss on my temple.