The Mason

Erikka Custis

These hands are rough,
Callous over,
And yellowed,
From the hard labor of my knees.

These hands are rough,
Ashen from the brick dust,
Concrete and stone,
Laid in place to create
Your local beauty. 

These hands are rough,
Torn and scared,
But I hold my kids gently in them,
And they take my hand without a second thought,
Wanting me to push them higher on the swings,
To cook pancakes every weekend.

These hands are rough,
But not incapable of kindness,
Of patience,
Of love.