A poem about the beauty and strength of a working man’s hands.
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His hands were strong and masculine,
Muscular and tan,
Wearing scars of labor,
The hands of a working man.
I found myself staring at those hands,
Studying their shape and size,
Likened to hands of a sculptor,
Knowing and wise.
His touch was warm and comforting,
A testament to his manhood,
With hands that sensed just where to go,
And knew just why they should.
Ahh…the hands of a working man,
Like a roadmap to where he’s been,
A promise of where he will go,
And a reflection of what lies within.
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