Small Hands
The hand so small
stiff and cold.
Why did it take
so
long to see how
bold
my mother was?
Thirty-five years
have
come and gone.
Oft embarrassed
by her age
must have cut to
the bone
and broken her
heart.
My memories of
her are
faded and few.
My own small hand
wears the ring
with which,
"I love you,"
said her first
love.
That too gave way
to
loss and sorrow.
I know her pain
and look for the
tomorrow
when she and I
can clasp small hands.
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