Hands

Hands. Rough to the touch.
From the toil, hardened.
Now a tightened clutch,
Grips the bag- moth eatened.

Callous fingertips
Close tight the frayed holes
Of the bag's old rips.
The bag is now whole.

Coarse palms. Etched with lines,
Support the fragile base.
The sagging outline
Follows the palms' trace.

Hands. Stiff and weary,
Hold the bag with tender.
Gently they carry,
With all they can render-


The small bag of Hope.