An Ode to My Mother’s Hands

I don’t think you would know that your hands feel

like a screened-in porch does in a wild thunderstorm.

I don’t think you would know that your hands feel

safe like your mother’s hands

probably did to you when you were just a little girl,

naive as I might be.

But now’s my chance to tell        you

how I love your hands

and each blue,                  protruding

vein beneath your tan

skin, grown beautiful with strength

and subtle hints

of age. I want

you to know that I notice

how your hands work tirelessly

but never complain or

receive praise

they truly deserve.

Your hands can hold me, encouraging

me to

keep myself together and be steadfast.

Your hands are rarely polished.

You say, it wouldn’t last. I use my hands too much for that.

But you don’t need shine or any extra color,

because they are more

                                            beautiful

                                                             blank.

Your hands

                     alone

emit a radiance with an intensity so vast

that one couldn’t help but wonder where

you get that glow.

And                              

                                      I would tell them

it’s because your hands are generous.

You act only with others in mind.

That’s why they are warm

like a mug filled high with coffee, and

why they are far more striking than the sight of lightning is

from within a screened-in porch.

Your hands are a work of brilliant,

                                           unusual art.

Nothing can compare

to the grace they hold.

December 2016