My Grandmothers Hands
the Ozark mountain girl,
picking flowers and
singing down the valley,
in the sun and the rain.
Her hands, older than her age, they were,
already a woman’s touch.
You were such a little girl, when your hands
took on the cares of this world, the mountains
ringing with the silent sound of your toil.
The clap of prayerful thunder it was, hands that never stopped,
and never asked why, why me?
The rough hands,
full of so much tender love,
folded in devotion,
and then after, always in motion,
sweeping a wooden floor, or knocking at heaven’s door,
stretched out hands of service through all infinity,
beckons me onward to all eternity.