this silent storm

My Grandfather, the Woodworker

His hands were calloused and worn
deep crevices running across their surface
decades of work they had born
the hardness they hold you could not miss
rough from years of laboring
in silent dedicated devotion
he sought to give us everything
in spite of his quiet lack of emotion.
Many splinters have pierced his skin,
the scars of some here still remain
and sawdust too is trapped within
the rugged lines where tools have lain.
But when he touched my childish face
All coarseness fled without a trace.