Hands

I have my mother’s hands
I’m not sure when it happened
but looking down
there they are
typing on my keyboard,
pouring my coffee,
petting my dog

 

The dark spots and ropy, blue veins

across the dorsum

the swollen knuckles

on fingers and thumbs,

and so many tiny creases everywhere

 

Now if they can only do 
some of the good
that hers did           

Another Mother's Day

Ghost of my mother

whispers to me still

when I close my eyes

and dream.