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Poem Reprint: Grandma’s Hands

Grandma’s Hands

Grandma’s hands were smooth and white
When I was a child.
And labored long at tasks untold
From dawn till well past setting sun,
And sometimes cuffed me into line
Along with words though stern, still kind
To make a young boy wise.

And when I’d grown
They’d labor still
Well into the night
With untold thimbled needle thrusts
Punctuating time.
But then they were but skin on bones
That would wrinkle up in mine
As hand in hand we’d talk and sit;

I’d listen with delight,
To tales of life and love and woe
And watch those transparent hands in mine
And see the blood go coursing by.

Grandma’s hands were smooth and white
When I was a child.