“My Mother’s Hands”

My mother's hands

   grew broader with age.

       Definitive lines of character
          began deepening,
             as they found comfort
                  in her strength.

                      Her fingertips held healing,
                          which could soothe a tear,
                              or banish pain from memory.

                                  In my formative years,
                                      from adolescence through adult,
                                         I found no solace to compare.

                                             Those hands -
                                                   they sheltered and stroked in
                                                         the caring that gave me life
                                                            and taught me to love.

                                                            And over the course of time,
                                                     when the distance of other worlds
                                                separated us,
                                             I still feel the warmth
                                          of those hands,
                                nurturing me
                           toward a life
                        of love and understanding.

                           Those hands…
                               which stay so much
                                    a part of me, and mine,
                                        pass on a mother's legacy
                                           from one generation to the next.

                                                      your mother's,
                                                            their mother's,
                                                                 and more,
                                                                      hold the power,
                                                                            which molds a nation
                                                                                 to determine what is
                                                                                    wrong from right.

                                                                 We entrust ourselves,
                                                                            our souls,
                                                                      our purpose of being,
                                                                 well in the wisdom
                                                           that our mother’s blood 
                                                        still flows 
                                                   through our veins...

                                                                         by j. b. pearce

                                                                         copyright 2003

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[Original Poem "My Mother's Hands"]

[J's Magic Galleries Index]

a piece I wrote

 about my mother several years ago…