My Mother's Hands

One of my earliest
Is my mother's hands
On the handle of
My pram.

They were small, delicate, hands,
Pale, smooth, soft.
I recall the gentle touch of
My mother's hands
In times of trouble.

Those hands would soothe
Peel potatoes,
Wash clothes,
Iron and fold them.

Clean the grate,
Sweep the ashes of the fire
Lay paper, kindling.

Winter: hands sore, chapped,
Rubbing Rosalex Barrier Cream
On those hardworking

Sewing, knitting, darning,
All took their toll of
My Mother's hands,

The hands of one not born to
Hard labour. Yet
She did not complain. Love
Was her driving force.

As time passed,
I saw her
Fingers twisting,
spotted with brown.

Those precious hands were growing
old, growing tired.

Finally, at rest.

I sit now, remembering
Those beloved hands,
Brushing away tears.

Then, looking down,
I see
My mother'ss hands.

Poetry by Marie Cadavieco The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 709 times
Written on 2019-08-22 at 23:57

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Thanks Marie. Your mother's hands are my mother's hands...
Beautiful hands. Those hands, finally, at rest.

I love your poem!
Memories still in your heart
Keep it! Thank you for sharing(,")

And she is always a part of you, and so it goes xx

A superlative and comprehensive catalogue of all the things at a mother's hands can do and have done! Excellent poem, Marie.