Gnarled hands and tired eyes the last in a chronicled memory.
Made with years of toil and loving care.
Are what remains of a mothers legacy.
Those hands, once so soft and warm
As they stroked my face to comfort me
With patience taught me how to tie my shoe,
Or cupped a tiny bird for me to see.
With deftness how they sewed my clothes,
Or bandaged a skinned knee.
And yes, with firmness those same hands
Were used when the need was there, to correct an erring way.
Never once did she claim that life had been unfair;
Nor did she ever utter a complaint about the pain she had to bear
In those gnarled hands, or those tired eyes that had lost their sight.
Those gnarled hands and tired eyes continue on as Mother's legacy.
I can see them now as they often were, gently clasped in silent prayer.