Motherly Hands

Sometimes I see her and stare in awe
At how mesmerizing her hands are
cracked, callused, comforting and empowered
Those perfectly imperfect defined lines
They hold power and accomplishment
not seen through day, not seen through night
They wipe tears of her own and those of her child
with those gracious hands
Just like a little girl on a wild flower meadow
she picks them like sunflowers
Those hands you see are those of a warrior
a soldier, a fighter, A mother

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