Monday, January 3, 2011
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
Posted by C Hummel Kornell at 4:11 AM