Monday, January 3, 2011

A Mother's Hands...


The hands that fitted these gloves were loving, gentle and worn.

They belonged to a Mother whose heart, though torn from a broken home,
found the strength to nurture and love the children she had born.

Her hands, roughened from the labors she performed, softened within the fingers of these gloves.

And when she slipped them on, the weariness of her world was gone.

A symbol of her youth, gifted by a Father she adored, 
these gloves bore with her through thickness and through thin.

And when we buried her they went with her once again.

C Hummel Kornell
Magpie Offering

5 comments:

  1. Omigoodness, that is beautiful. It really spoke to me. When my mother passed away, I remember looking at her hands and remembering all the wonderful things they had done, and would do no more.

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  2. what a wonderful tribute to one that sounds like a remarkable lady...a touching ending as well...nice magpie!

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  3. Such a moving tribute to your Mother!
    This little poem appeals to all our senses. It has rhyme and rhytm; it has contrasts: 'gentle and worn', 'strength and weariness', 'roughened and softened', 'thickness and thin'. And above all it has Love for the children and for the Father that gave her the Gloves.

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  4. Thanks to each of you for your kind remarks! This one was easy, actually. Although we were poor, my Mother was always a lady. She always wore her gloves. I still have a couple pairs of her everyday ones. She died unexpectedly on Mother's Day in 1985 at the age of 62. She suffered a massive heart attack while standing at the kitchen stove, cooking my Father's lunch. It was, perhaps, one of the worst days of my life. You never have the chance to say the things you want. She was a great and loving Mom and a wonderful person.

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  5. beautiful descriptions...

    well put.

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