My Grandfather’s Hands

They weren't delicate,
knuckles knotted like old oak roots,
nails rimmed with blackened edges
of soil or engine grease.

In the morning they smelled of cedar,
split logs, and the faint ghost
of wood smoke carried in
after an early frost.

Strong when they needed to be,
but soft enough to wipe my tears like snowflakes,
or cradle an injured bird that crashed
against the kitchen window.

He never prayed out loud,
but his hands —
threading softly through my hair,
or brushing sawdust from a beam —
always moved with reverence,
like they were touching God.