Her Hands

Her skin shows age beyond her years,

wisdom in the softly wrinkled backs of

her hands, looking like well-worn leather,

softer for the years and use.

Stories are written in those

hands of hers, and some of mine

intertwine with hers, laced

fingers of mother and daughter:




I am a part of her, and her hands

will be my hands, old beyond their time,

reflecting a full life, imperfect yet

ever new, like flowing water,

like her hands.


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