The Hands Of A Warrior

I wrote this poem about one of the things that women feel when they are growing old.

Purple veins strain against the skin.

Pale, translucent, paper thin.

Skinny fingers clawed in monstrous shapes,

Brown spots from years that she can't erase.

Now wrinkled and fragile, weak and sore,

So many things she can't do anymore.

Some days she feels she's been betrayed

By the cruelty of her advancing age.

She rubs her hands to ease the ache

And recalls the life they helped to make.

She looks at them and feels the loss,

Living a life bears a very high cost.

These hands that held her children near,

That gently dried their salty tears.

Hands that held her husband's tight,

That never let go against the fight.

Miraculous hands that protected and soothed.

Hands, they conveyed her every mood.

Hands so strong they could carry the weight,

That would never give up and never forsake.

Those hands that took little but always gave,

Hands that applauded each achievement made.

Those soft, sweet hands that gently cared,

For those sick or lost in dark despair.

Hands that fussed and fumbled that day

Her husband gave their daughter away.

Those hands holding tight as he slowly died,

Caressing his brow as she stood by his side.

Hands that rocked her grandson to sleep,

That gladly took over when others grew weak.

Hands that once held everyone that she loved,

And prayed for strength to our God above.

Hands that were always so willing to give,

Hands that reveal a life fully lived.

Small, feeble hands, now empty and cold,

These hands that each day will keep growing old.

These hands she now tends to hide away,

These hands that at times make her feel ashamed.

Grotesque and useless in her eyes,

They rest in her lap as she quietly cries.

But I see the hands of a hero so true,

A woman who survived what this life put her through.

A woman whose heart still shimmers like gold,

With the hands of a warrior who made her mark on this world.