Grandad's Hands
 
Grandad's hands were hewn
twisting broncs for hire.
Callused, and notched
they were tools to inspire.
 
I remember those hands
telling tales round a fire
or while cooking up
his special chicken fryer.
 
In his kitchen where we heard
what cowboys desire
those hands could hold mine
like a strand of barb wire.
 
Gentle and with purpose
like truth to a liar.
Those hands of a man
who never did tire
 
of telling us how cowboys never retire
as long as there's one more log for the fire.
©Steve Dirksen