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My Father, With His Arthritic Hands

My father, with his arthritic hands
Closes his door, picks up the bow
Tucks the bit under his chin
Tunes it real low

My father can compete with the world's best bands
My father plays the violin.

His eyes are dim but the notes are clear
His hearing is faulty but we can hear
The songs that pour out from within
People outside stop to listen
When my father plays the violin.

He opens up another world
Far from stress and pain
I become a child again
As without a word
He picks up the bow, tunes it real low
My father plays the violin.

My father with his arthritic hands
Holds a magnifying glass to his eyes to read
He sits out there under the clear blue skies
Now that he can hardly walk
(Luckily my sisters are there when he needs to talk) .
And when its dusk and he enters within
Then with his arthritic hands
Father picks up his violin.




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Rani Turton writes, “These lines are a tribute to my father, who plays the violin as depicted in the poem.”