These are my mother’s hands:

wracked with worry, the veins

thick below the skin, soft

like worms in loam.


These are my mother’s hands:

holding my face, stunned

that I am still alive

to walk through another day.


These are my mother’s hands:

kneading the bread dough

for another Thanksgiving,

one more meal together.


These are my mother’s hands,

empty like bones in the ground.

(November 28, 2021)

1 Comment

  1. Hands say a lot. I see the value of the beauty in your mother’s hands

    Like

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