Looking at Our World Through Poetry: Hands

I look at my mother’s hands;

Hands that hold love incarnate;
Hands of healing;
Hands of safety;
Hands of strength and encouragement
Maternal hands.


She sees me coming;

Her hand reaches out,
Not demandingly;
Not in coercion;
Not in entreaty;
But with invitation
A hand that invites
My hand to reach out too,
To connect;
To rest;
To regain security,
So that, refreshed
And strengthened,
I can again rush out,
To play;
To explore;
To gain new knowledge;
To encounter fresh challenges;
To experience new and
Deeper hurts;
Knowing always,
That I can forever return;
To hold her hand,
Her hand which now
Comforts and heals;
Her hand that reminds me,
That beauty and
Pain are both
Integral components of life;
Her hand that comforts me;
Her hand that holds
My trembling hand,
Gently, oh so gently,


As, she, my Mother,
Leads me
To see beyond the intense
Beauty and the
Deepest pain,
To a new level of understanding
To see that there are
Lessons to be learned
From both the
Light and the darkness,
That I may
Evolve a fuller
And more empathetic
Human being,
Like I know she is.


Her hand presses
My little hand
Cupped in hers,
In reaffirmation of
My being;
And by her touch
I know I am healed;
I perceive deeper truths;
I know I am
Loved now and forever.


Oh Mom, owner
Of that miraculous hand
That hand that conveyed so much
I love you so;
And thanks to you,
I love me, too.


Betty R. Stockley
Copyright 1995

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