Grandma's Hands

Grandma's hands map a bonvoyage ,

From hope to days of strife.

They once were young and not so mature of age

As they were always caged, despite yours .

They hold a promise of a fruitful life

Which is soothing and really nice

Her hands at one time captured

Woollen threads of loom.

These hands have wed many grooms.

Upon first glance, they are wrinkled ,

With rough skin and cracks deepening experience

Seemingly filling in each empty crevice it lacks

But behind each blemish and smirk is a story

Each bubbling with a seemingly endless sadness of eternity and glory

Behind those wrinkles were hands once raw and smooth

Holding her mother's while crossing the street to school

Behind those veins flows the blood within which the sacrifice which she made

giving up her body, standardized beauty , for the additions of future decades

Behind those eyes of vast vision with lids that droop so low

Were once bright and encapturing

Reflections of the bare winter snow

Behind those legs which crack and are weak

Are hours of determination and work

So her family could eat

Behind those down thine ears

Are rivers which used to meet hear , and water of tears

Behind her back ; which is bent and can't stand up erect

Always made sure you dined even if she inspected any threat

Though her hands are rough and slow

They hold a necessary touch meant for you to grow