What do I stand for?
Maybe it’s the gravity of life
With its wrinkled, crooked hands
That firmly held my stiff shoulders
As I wrestled to run loose into the horizon.
Maybe it’s the roots of life
With its soiled and calloused hands
That slowly took hold of my small, shaking feet
As I stumbled along the cracked pavement.
Maybe it’s the glow of life
With its warm, smooth hands
That caressed the tear-stained cheeks
As I greeted the sun-drenched morning.