Hands
That Speak
Brown,
wrinkled, lined hands
Hands
with callouses …. Used hands!
Rough,
worn and knobbly hands
Hands
that are resting ….. Tired hands
They
were once smooth
And
soft to touch,
With
gleaming tips
And
rings and such,
Held
up for a waltz
Or
out for a shake,
Or
holding aloft wineglass and cake.
If
eyes are the mirror
Of
one’s soul,
Its
hands that speak
Of
the family role.
They
softly caressed fevered brows,
And
gently wiped a running nose,
They
plaited braids & polished shoes,
And tightened
bows which became loose.
Those
hands they were that washed the pans,
And
kept the house all spic & span,
Arranged
the flowers in a pretty vase,
In
the garden pulled out weeds n grass.
Those
hands were magic
That
kneaded the dough,
And
dished out cookies,
Cakes,
puddings and more.
They
bandaged knees,
Sewed
a button or two,
Found
things that were lost,
Helped
with projects few.
They
clasped and led
Through
difficult days,
And
soothed and calmed,
And
even mended ways.
And
lovingly placed a trophy or two,
Up on
the shelf, with pride so true.
And
when the children
Flew
the nest,
Those
hands they were
That
did their best,
To
hide the signs of tears in eyes,
Turn
the leaves of an album
and
stifle sighs.
Now
those tired hands are
Folded
in prayer,
Placing
all her children
In His
loving care,
Long
& hard they worked forever,
They
are the hands that speak…
The
hands of our mother.
