Hands that speak

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.