Turquoise veins beneath the skin.
Pale, mellow thin.
Scrawny fingers clenched into grievous shapes,
Dark patches that she can't erase.
Now crumpled, flimsy, frail and sore,
Numerous things she can't do anymore.
At times she feels she's been cheated
By her propelling age.
She ignores her hands to quell the ache
She snubs her greying hairs to ease the pain
These hands that are trembling
Held their child firmly,
These hands dried their salty tears
In their hardest years.
Hands so stiff that carried the weight,
Of all the family in spite of the dimming slate.
These hands took little but always gave,
These hands applauded every achievement made.
These hands widened up for warm loving hugs
When the world rejected my image.
These hands prayed for unveiling strength,
For us when we were sick or lost in dark despair.
These hands were the families pillar
In the stormy devastating days.
Hands that rocked her grandson to sleep,
Now are gripping for the silver knob of a stick.
Hands that uncover a life wholly lived.
Tiny, sapless, now looted and cold,
These hands are starving for
The love of her children
Who are busy in their lives.