Mother's Hands

My mother's hands are soft as silk,

the color of ivory

Besides their beauty,

they were strong as she raised me

Her hands were the ones that prepared my meals,

day after day

They turned on the hall light each night,

to make sure I was okay

They felt the fever on my cheeks

held me up when I was weak

Her hands turned many pages

from the books she read

And covered me with blankets

after kissing my forehead

As I grow older now and my memories slowly fade

I'll never forget her hands

and a childhood I wouldn't trade

Author's Note

This was written in my younger twenties, yet a nice tribute to my beloved mother.