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.

by

© Phil Van Der M

more of Phil's poetry can be found here