My Mother's Hands

If you look at my mother's hands
you would probably see,
withered hands with veins of blue
hands of the elderly.

But when I look at my mother's hands,
that's not at all what I see.
I see work, pain and tolerance,
prayer, love and worry.

I see two hands that had to raise
eight children all alone.
I see two hands that made sure
each house we lived in was a home.

I see two hands intertwined
with worry of what to do,
each time my father disappeared
for a month or two.

I see two hands that did not hold
any monetary things.
I see two hands that would iron all day
so we looked neat and clean.

I see two hands that would not eat
unless the children were full.
I see two hands that never struck
another living soul.

I see two hands, oh so proud,
never reaching for charity.
Think of her next time you see
hands of the elderly.