A Mother's Hands Poem by Deborah J Richard

These mother's hands have reached and held,
brushed away many a tear.
They washed and cleaned, mended many a thing,
pulled their child close, just to be near.

They once were smooth, and oh, so soft;
belonging to the young of heart.
Now aged and worn, yet busy still;
completing all the things they start.

Slower now, covered with spots,
time has shown its own,
meaty flesh, once firm and supple,
now withered to the bone.

Yet, still they reach out, ask to be held,
at times there is empty air.
Does no one remember the things these hands did?
Does anybody care?

Deborah J. Richard
Escondido, CA
5/20/17