My mother's hands

My mother had thick, wide, hands,
callused from years of hard work.
I used to like to hold them,
feel their strength and warmth

Those were the hands that cared,
caressed and held her me close.
Those were the hands that scrubbed
and washed, cooked for us and nursed.

My mother had beautiful hands
and would paint her nails light pink.
They were warm, artistic hands
that could crochet well and knit.

Those were the hands that created,
made beautiful shawls and clothes.
Those were the hands that altered dresses
I wore ‘til they were old.

My mother had beautiful hands
that cooked and cleaned and scrubbed,
and within the things that those hands did
were bundles and bundles of love.

poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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