
But her hands have never hauled in wood,
or worked in God's good eath.
They've never felt the bitter cold,
or chopped ice waiting stock,
they've never doctored sick ones,
or dressed a horse's hock.
They've never pick wild grass on gardens,
or pluck the leaves of the chinese tea.
They've probably never patched trousers,
or had worn old socks to darn.

They've never touched a younglin'
or caressed a fevered head,
with hands so gently folded,
all night beside his bed.
They've never scrubbed a kitchen floor,
or done dishes everyday.
They've never guided with those hands,
a child who's lost the way.
They've never worn a blister,
or had calluses to show,
for all they've done for others,
and the kindnesses I know.
So you see, my dearest mother,
yourr are hands of love,
and I bet we all already notice
Even if it's not shown from above.
Tommi Jo Casteel
*off~
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