A Poem for my Grandfather
Mr. Hortensio Arturo Chamez Fernandez
A Farmer's Hands
By Joey Fernandez
Click on Alex for Spanish Click on Hali for English
When my Grandfather's hand touch the soil, the seeds pour into the earth.
They are old seeds, like my Grandfather's hands and the hands that were before his.
Grandfather's hands are my family hands that go way back in time.
Grandfather's hands are ancient hands.
Hands that poured the seeds into the land and into the farm that my Grandfather loves.
Hands that smell of earth, of the heat of the sun, of the sweat of a farmer, of the spicy chile that grows.
Hands that are hard from work, scarred from his life.
Grandfather's hands are with me here. Where my hands smell of the dirt of play, the sweat of being new,
the sweet of candy.
My Hands are new hands, but when I think of my Grandfather,
my hands are ancient hands too.
Ancient from the history of my family,
old hands that hold dreams of more,
scarred hands from the life that is there,
while I am here.
