Profess Love
Poem written for a mother
My Mother’s Hands
My mother’s hands tilled the earth
And tended the beasts in the place of her birth
My mother’s hands tickled the ivories
Making many a party that much more lively
My mother’s hands were magic, I’m sure
On my fevered brow they seemed to cure
My mother’s hands once typed a paper for me
When I’d procrastinated and the hour was wee
My mother’s hands spent hours clasped in prayer
Her faith was beautiful and always there
My mother’s hands prepared meals that were nutritious
A few “science experiments” but most were delicious
My mother’s hands turned a house into a home
And gave us all a piece when it was our time to roam
When I’m missing those hands and all their charms
I’ll just look down to the ends of my arms
Because my hands have grown to look similar
But I can only hope they’ll measure up to her