My mother has

survivor hands

deep lined,

cracked,

Stories and memories

nestle in the creases

Marbled and mottled

these hands know work,

have felt years,

held babies,

turned pages of storybooks,

waved goodbye,

wiped tears,

and welcomed friends

These hands have provided,

have hard nails,

perfect ovals in beds of cuticles

sometimes ragged

as the edge of a tea towel

that it often holds,

wiping clean

My mother’s hands are

beautiful.

They are the knotty tree

with the lovers initials,

loose birds nests and

stretching, perfectly climbable

Daddy-can-I-please!

branches

And when winter comes and

the air crackles like old paper

making licks of hair

stick to my face,

I look down

and see

my mother’s survivor hands