Thursday, April 15, 2010

Mama's Hands (M)

Even though the years have passed,
I recall my Mama's hands then-
The tiny lines so deeply pressed

into her leathered skin.

Age and time and work had left
their memories behind.
I studied well
the hands so frail
that she cradled within mine.

I thought her old- (although she wasn't)-
But I felt sorry, none the less,
That she had the hands
that held the scars

Of too much time and stress.

Now that I'm no longer young,
I see the years take hold-
Time and pain and memories-
Like clay, my hands they mold.

But time passes in a silent way
that no one understands.
I suddenly looked at myself today-

I have my Mama's hands.