Mother’s Hands

 

Hands so very small

Who would think they could do so much?

The scrape on my knee felt her healing touch

The gentle brush as she wiped my tears.

 

Closing my eyes as I touch her delicate fingers

I remember her holding the brush

Sitting on the floor before her

Bowing my head, she ran it through my tresses.

 

The thought even relaxes me

My chest breathes in and out

Small fingers smoothing the long hair

Her other, wrapped around the wooden handle.

 

Opening my eyes, I see her hands

They’re folded on black dress

She looks like she’s sleeping

Her hand is so very cold.

 

Trying to control my emotions

I do so in vain

Putting my hand on top of hers

They look the same.

 

Each moment passes by so slow

The time coming to lay her to rest.

Oh, how I want to feel her hand on my hair

And kiss my breaking heart.

 

Photo from: http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Elaenor-Cummings/1001681/

Poetry by Susan Reed.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s