Tattered Hands
Old, Tattered, and Tethered,
His hands work with ease and rhythm
As they construct only beauty from the broken.
They flow from part to tool,
Solving the puzzle of perfection,
But who knew beauty could come
From a humid, steel box
Filled with various scraps of my past?
I watch in awe of the talent
And question where it comes from,
But he is too consumed in his art
To hear my wonder correctly.
“Honey, it will be fixed soon,”
He reassures me with determined sweat
Dripping down his smile on to his
Old, Tattered, and Tethered
Hands.
About the Contributor
Erin Dickman, Social Media Promotion
Erin Dickman is a collection of loud noises, booger-picking, and blonde hair. Her greatest accomplishment is winning the 7th grade health award- you can...