Mom refined

May 28, 2010
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Her hands leather in the garden with age,
Nails broken and weak,
Her hair will fade with time, changing with vibrancy.
A smile that brightens.
Hands brittle from dyeing too much.
Fights will erupt between the pair,
She will apologize,
And try to protect you,
Making blankets of love out of your favorite animals,
Giving them to you,
Hoping to solve the issue.
She won’t mind that her eyes twinkle blue,
Or that she isn’t a size two.
Her hands start to unwrinkle with dishwater.
Her hands caked with cookie batter,
Her schedule overwhelmed by girl scouts and room Mom,
Nights filled with funny character voices,
And melodic rock-a-bys,
Her hands radiate serene

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