Mom; she wears her love
on her hands
The age spots tell of the many years
she has held me
in her heart.
The lines tell of her never-ending
acts of service;
kneading the dough
turning the soil
picking the fruit.
Never did her children lack
in the cold of winter.
The age spots tell of the many years
she has held me
in her heart.
Hands that have held,
stroked, given and withheld,
comforted and corrected.
Folded in prayer
seeking guidance
to guide our hearts
to seek God.
Mom; her hand held my
small hand
the other held fast
to the hand of God
who holds time
in His.
Despite her own
pain,
her fear,
her doubt
and out of her lack
does she love.
Not in perfection
but with all in her;
always holding the hand
of her Heavenly
Father.
And out of her lack does she love;
not in perfection but with all in her.
She loves as only she
can love the ones she
has birthed;
pieces of her heart
walking
and breathing.
Your hands Mom,
were formed to
hold my hands
and I thank God
for every day that I
can still feel your
soft one give
mine a
squeeze.
I know you
love me, Mom.
I love you Mom,
❤️Mary
