catnipoflife

I watch women’s hands.

I learn from them.

Some hands are open.

Some hands are closed.

Some hands are baking.

Some hands are making

clothes, mending or brand new.

Some hands will always have to “make do.”

Some hands are willing.

Some have no choice.

Some are speaking instruments

For those without voice.

Gabriel Corno

Grandmother’s hands were cleaning, crocheting, caressing.

With her hands there was no second guessing.

Now there were moments when on a fevered brow

Those hands were healing With a gentle “Hush, now.”

Mother’s hands were gaily saying

“Clean your room, get your books,

get ready for church,

 or come sit near its time for praying”

I wonder as I ponder

looking in the past

Just how wonderful their hands are now.

Now  there are no more chores to do. 

Now   there are only “angel jobs’

and Souls’ to  “pray through” 

Up there is just…