Richard L. Merila
My Mother's Hands
My Mother's hands, oh, the memories of them bring a sadness to my soul!
Aged, wrinkled and worn, My Mother's hands; oh, the memories, how I love them so
The coolness of my Mother's hands upon my fevered brow...
My Mother's hands, where are they now?
A time to be remembered; a time to be forgotten;
The memories as my mother's hands held me, broken.
A time to cherish, a time to adore.
The memories of my Mother's hands when I came back from war.
Injured from service in faraway lands