My Mother's Hands

To stroke and rub, clasp and grasp, strive with love.

Constant movers, strong and unlined  beauty.

Restless in slumber, draped in servant’s glove.

I remember youthful grace and caring.

Embodying perfection in action.

Turned to little beasts with red knobs snarling.

Defied her will, withholding all compassion.  

I gratefully remember hopeful smiles.

Touching beloved hands that I knew best.

“I love you, they said.  I have walked my miles.

Time to let go. I want my sabbath rest.”

“Now we lay clasped and still. Our work is done.”

Her lovely hands now reach out for the Son.