Mothers' Hands

Mothers’ Hands Her Hands; Like gnarled, knotted Olive trees… folded in her lap. These are the hands That held mine, as I learned to walk. These hands I hold held me and soothed a feverish brow with tenderness. They are the hands Of one who worked; Planting a garden Canning the yield When did my hands Become hers? When did hers Become her mothers’? IlaMae Stucki © 5/7/2010