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.