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Wednesday, April 08, 2015

Hands: a poem by David H. Roche

Old wrinkled hands that have held wrenches 
and hammers,
hands that have been burned,
cut and healed leaving scars,
hands that have petted kittens,
punched faces,
       caressed lovers
       and held my face as I cried alone.
       Old wrinkled hands hold the story of my life.

poetry and photography by David H. Roche (C) 2015

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A practitioner of the art of living with the intent of learning how to die without fear.