Her hands.

My Mother's Hands

By Amanda Buckley

If I could write a poem,

I would write about my Mother's hands.

I picture her hands,

Short fingers, long nails,

Brown spots, blue veins.

They pray.

They have ridges on the nails. I used to feel them in church. I can see her

Adjust the ring with sapphires that was Dad's college pin.

They care for children and a husband.

If love is a verb, her hands are the tools, My Mother's hands held me, bathed me,

Wiped my tears and put a merthiolate ring around my finger to make me

Feel better.

My Mother's hands. They make delicious things. They scoop flour,

Lightly knead the dough and cut the biscuits.They used to put the biscuits

On a black cookie sheet. They don't make them like that anymore. 

My mother's hands. They work. They scrubbed floors, hatcheted

The monkey grass around the driveway, picked figs, picked okra,

Picked pecans, picked shrimp.

My Mother's hands. They are helpful. They pulled on my socks;

Her socks as she changes shoes AGAIN; my dad's socks. They gesture in a

Funny story. 

My mother's hands. They catch mardi gras beads for her and her grandchildren.

Well, maybe she will keep THIS pair. With a certain approving gesture, a house

At Dauphin Island becomes a wonderful find! Our Treasure.

My mother's Hands. They make beautiful things. They sketch and paint. They

Write notes and send her love on its way with a stamp.

My Mother's Hands. So competent. So caring. So useful.

I love my Mother's hands.