Hands of Time

These hands…

Once reached out

To grasp

My father’s own,

In my very first days

And later

Reached down

To my own

Little ones’

As they sought me.

 

These hands,

Once nimble

And quick enough

To thread a needle,

Have glided

Across miles

Of fabric and lace,

Have sewn finery

For all  my little ones,

And their little ones,

And even those

Little ones, still.

 

These hands,

Whose fingertips

Have brushed away bangs,

Wiped away

Tears and smudges,

Caressed cheeks,

Plucked out thorns,

Splinters,

Bee stings,

 

These hands

Held my babies,

Soothed their aches

When they stumbled,

Socked their feet

When they were cold,

Rubbed their backs

When they were tired,

Felt their foreheads

When they were ill.

Time is cruel

To these lovely tools ,

They have become

Somewhat mangled,

I cannot

Easily hold

Needle and thread,

Caress a cheek,

Smooth a wrinkle,

Mend a tear.

 

The skin colored

With spots of dark

And light,

From  many hours

I’ve spent

Holding hands

In the sun,

Pushing swings,

Rescuing from trees,

Hanging linens

On the line,

Holding fishing poles,

Picking flowers.

 

Once supple,

Now like parchment,

Cross hatched

Like fine watercolors,

Draped

Over spindly twigs,

Spidery

Blue lines criss-cross

Over them,

As though

Abandoned

Railway stations.

 
The feeling

Gone from  tips,

Nails yellowed

Like the pages

Of many  books

Once read aloud,

Over and over.

 
Time is so unkind…

To these wonderful hands of mine.