Gentle Hands Poem by Pearl L Johns

His hands were gnarled and misshapen by years of painful arthritis.
But to me his hands were beautiful.
He had been born to a tough life in the year of 1918.
Went through a year bedridden at the age of six
Then taught himself to walk again.
Went to war as a young man.
Spent forty two months as a p.o.w.
Facing horrors he could seldom speak about.
He was the strongest man I ever knew.
Spent his life planting seeds in the ground.
Watching them sprout and grow.
Just as he watched my brother and I srpout and grow.
Held his first grandchild at the age of seventy six.
So tenderly in those swollen gnarled hands.
I loved those hands, those gentle hands of my father.
I miss you daddy.