Her hands are old and worn
Probably from her whole life being torn
They’ve so often prepared the food I eat
That they’ve started to feel like a rumpled bed sheet
From that night that they danced at prom
To the day that they became my mom
Those hands have been as soft as silk
Even while pouring a glass of milk
So many jobs those fingers do each day
They move in such a special way
Like ballerinas dancing on piano keys
With such style, grace, and ease
My hands are the same without the age
But hers are birds freed from a cage
These palms have seen such great hardship
They deserve the love I often skip
There is so much they do for me
I hope that my mom can clearly see
That even with the years of abuse
These hands still have an important use