Soft, soothing hands would rock a crying son
To sleep; would clap and cheer when he would run;
Then work anew ’til household chores were done.
Smooth, loving hands would comb a daughter’s hair,
Sew up a dress or mend a teddy bear;
They’d fix a meal; wipe tears of deep despair;
Then gently fold in humble, heart-felt prayer.
But days of soft, smooth hands have slipped away,
And like once silky hair that yields to gray,
There’s nothing left but wrinkles to display.
Those wrinkled hands, refined through joy and strife,
Map out a mother’s rich and storied life.
© 2015 R. Mark Vincent