My Mother`s Hands,
Those hands, so callous, yet so tender.
They speak of hardship and surrender.
A resume of a full life.
A diary of hope and strife.
Those hands that crossed the bread,
that oft caressed my head,
that prayed at length,
for virtue and for strength.
I do recall foremost that day,
her shaky voice, her trembling hand,
her eyes in mine, as if to say,
remember me , in foreign land.
She drew a cross upon my head.
"God bless you son" is all she said.
That tear, that trembling voice, could tell,
she knew, it was our last farewell.
© Phil Van Der M
more of Phil's poetry can be found here