His hands

Another poem written about my grandfather, before he passed:

My grandfather still has a firm grip in his hands,
The hands that reared children, built homes,
Nourished strangers, travelled far, helping many;
The hands that took the lives of countless deer and game
To feed his family, while bringing new life to the world,
In children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren,
And thousands of souls through baptism and from his pulpit.
These hands rest now on the sides of his hospital bed,
The weight of the world pushing back on them
With a force finally greater than the force he was
With which to be reckoned. His hand still grips firm,
Even though his arms no longer keep himself afloat
In the sea of blankets, armchairs, wheelchairs,
And dinner trays. And I watch with subtle awe as
That hand, that held so much, that still grasps firm,
Finds its greatest comfort in the soft, tired, but true
Grip of another, as he smiles into her constant face
And slips into another perhaps less troubled sleep,
Still not letting go with his hands.

1/24/11