Читать книгу Poems for the Funeral Celebrant - Richard A. Phipps - Страница 14

Her hands were always moving so busy,

their speed could certainly cause a tizzy.

Fingers like her own, oh so nimble.

I wonder? Did she ever lose a thimble?

In her hands, books read with eyes intense,

pages of romance and mystery suspense,

Thousands of words from which to learn.

Not a moment of prose did she ever spurn.

Hours and hours, hands in her garden.

Digging and planting til callouses hardened.

Geraniums, roses, magnolias, hydrangeas,

only few of the many she nurtured so gracious.

Yet hands ne’er too busy to care for me,

shaping and molding so truth I could see.

With her hands in mine knowing life can be cruel,

she lovingly guided me back to school.

Hands that created beaded ornaments of splendor,

decorated my life with love so tender.

How can I tell you of a life wrapped with lace?

How can I describe such hands filled with grace?