The hands of my mother

August 30, 2008
Her hands feel warm,
Even though they are ice cold.
The mysteries of her life I feel I know,
Even though it still has yet to unfold.
Her hands are withered,
Her skin is dry.
Her nails are chipped,
Yet her hands never lie.
She may not have the perfect hands to you,
But they are the hands I dream of when I sleep.
And the memories of her hands,
I will forever keep.
When I am touched by her,
Warmth and comfort passes to me.
Her hands are my happiness,
And her happiness is me!
When my world becomes difficult,
Her hands are there to catch my tears.
With her there for me,
I no longer have any fears.
I could travel the world,
Search the countries and lands.
Yet still I would not find,
Such perfect hands.
Her hands dry my tears and quiet my sobbing,
My life is cured with the hands of my mother.
Knowing she will never let me fall,
I wouldn't ever wish for any other.
I do not know,
What I would do,
If I did not have,
Such a great mother like you!

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