MY MOTHER'S HANDS

My mother's hands kneaded dough,

prepared meals, hung up wash,

pinned diapers, brushed tangled hair,

planted seeds, gave back massages,

darned socks, stirred chocolate pudding,

typed business letters, pulled weeds.

My mother's hands prayed. She didn't

like her hands, she told me once,

because of the arthritis. They were

gnarly and swollen, it is true. But I?

I thought they were beautiful.

**********

Poem by,

Ann E. Diviney

Poet's Digital Cafe