Made of Finer Clay
There was a time
I saw my mother's hands and
noticed quite a difference
between hers and mine
hers were fine
soft and smooth
with lovely nails, refined
While mine-
so rough and dried
no lotion could soothe or hide
the blisters and the callouses
while hers were fit for palaces
mine were like a scullery maid's
accustomed to hard work
I often thought looking at her
that we must have been made
of different stuff
for even though
she was a simple woman
no frills or fluff
she seemed somehow
to be made of finer clay
Like porcelain-
delicately enchanting
but prone to chips and cracks
while I, more like a
sturdy stoneware
strength and durability
making up
for what I lacked
I never knew just how true
this was until she died
never realized just how fragile
she really was, because
she was the vessel
that originally
carried me
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