Her hands held me gently from the day I took my first breath

Her hands helped to guide me as I took my first step.

Her hands held me close to when the tears would start to fall

Her hands were quick to show me that she would take care of it all

Her hands were there to brush my hair, or straighten a wayward brow

Her hands were often there to comfort the hurt that didn’t always show

Her hands helped hold the stars in place, and encourage me to reach

Her hands would clap and cheer and praise when I captured them at length

Her hands would also push me, though not down or in harm’s way

Her hands would punctuate the words, just do what I say

Her hands sometimes had to discipline, to help bend this young tree

Her hands would shape and mold me into all she knew I could be

Her hands are now twisting with age and years of work

Her hands now need my gentle touch to rub away the hurt

Her hands are more beautiful than anything can be

Her hands are the reason I am me