Her Tired Hands Are Beautiful

Her tired hands are beautiful,
their sharp cracks and wrinkles
smoothed under the lotion
she applies before bed.

I'm too old now,
to nestle in the warm spot
between her shoulder and chin,
and fall asleep.

With tear drenched cheeks,
I'd look to her, and know
her smile would chase away
all my fears.

For all those years she raised me,
I was too busy to come home
raise my sleeves,
and dirty my hands.

And now all I taste
is the sour tears of guilt
running down my throat
making me sick with regret.

After years of running
as far as my feet could take me
I only wish
to click my heels and return home.


~Oct. 30, 2005

I wrote this thinking of my mother, who is the strongest woman I know.