1 Comment

My Mother’s hands



My mother’s hands once made a cake,
Once rode a bike,
Once ironed a shirt.
My Mother’s hands could sew a dress,
Could steer a car,
Could pet a cat.
My Mother’s hands would knead bread dough,
Would wash the dishes,
Would address an envelope.
My Mother’s hands wrote a newspaper column,
Typed quite fast,
Sent Christmas letters.
My Mother’s hands would shuffle cards,
Would turn sheet music,
Would play the piano.
But now my Mother’s hands have no more words,
Have no more music,
Have no purpose.
My Mother’s hands are quiet now. 

One comment on “My Mother’s hands

  1. That was beautifully put into words. The conclusion was simply put but potent.

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