Whose are these hands?

Poetry — By on September 15, 2013 at 5:00 am

Who has the hands
That make our clothes?

Who has the hands
That clear the way?

Who has the hands
That grow the food?

Who has the hands
That work too long,
And late and hard?

Who has the hands,
The black and brown hands,
That care for me
And clean up and bury me?

Who has the hands
That clap in joy
And sorrow
And communion?

Who has the hands
That make the crafts
We say we love
But don’t like to pay for?

Who has the hands
That grow and carry and clean
The food we call our own?

There are few sorrows
These hands have not known
As they have served us,
Asking for little more
Than respect and decency.

Who are these hands
That work silently
And seemingly forever.

Who are these hands
That never seem to tire?

Who are these hands
That work
And break for me?

Who are these hands?

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