Chapped hands scrub clothes in the snow-melt river
and with the hoe, attack unyielding earth.
Nail-bitten hands prepare yet another mealand bloodied, hold new life,
While blue-veined hands are brought together in supplication,and shaking, stretch in welcome.
Capable hands hold the scalpel, the gavel,
the pen.
Work-reddened hands hold the mop handle,the broom.
While limp hands with painted fingersbeckon alluringly.
Long nimble hands talk to those who live in silence
and coax a melody from white keys.
Soft hands touch a lover’s cheek,sooth a baby and stroke a brow.
While sinewy fists held above the head pulsate with the chantsand push despair deep into young veins.
Large-knuckled hands struggle with buttons
and transparent hands tremble with the spoon.
Smooth-skinned hands hold the book carefullyand forget a finger under a line.
While strong gloved hands work the gearsof the bulldozer.
Which hands are yours—mother?
They are all mine, my child,
They are all mine, my child,
and yours.
