Their stories and scars, the things they grasp.
All rough and worn, but strong.
Everyone has them they come in pairs
But these ones, are special.
I love to watch them in action, I often stare.
Or sneak a peak when no one is there.
They dance on keys and caress horsehair strings.
A kind pat on the back, or a warm embrace
Its of these things I think, when I think of them.
The way they grip my shoulders or slide over my curves
Confidently clutch the wheel, and shift the gears.
Expertly they hold the thin leather, reins,
They gently guide a horse’s mouth
They’re beaten and battered, with stories to tell
With strength they don’t know
These hands use not their strength for inflicting pain
But guide and encourage
They hold me tight, and things I can’t control
Letting go with a warning.
It’s these particular hands I cannot leave
With gentle persuasion they pull me back
Every time they ask, I gladly come