Family

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Rough hands reveal the hurt that hard work buys,
The years of toil that fed the lot of us;
Those throbbing fingers twice their normal size,
Arthritic villain crippling, swelling thus.
The keepers of your lamps have trimmed their wicks,
Made dim the paths that once were bright and clear;
And as the clock of aging in you ticks,
The letters on the page begin to smear.
Yet still you keep the hectic pace you’ve known,
Not slowing down to let your engine rest;
Believing that the going keeps you strong,
You daily put your body to the test.
Why lead a life whose pace is set too slow
Until all systems in you cease to go?

By David Garrett
Copyright 1986

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