My Grandmother's Hands

My grandmother's hands are strong,

with them, she raised five children,

with them, she made appetising food,

and prepared the long table.

I look down at my hands,

and say, 'they hauntingly resemble hers',

but pretty and smooth hands,

cannot be found in others.

My grandmother's hands would,

not have set on ship's wheel,

nor designed a building,

or have any bird killed,

but they gave me strength,

to bite in the winter frost,

and achieve dreams,

that could not have been done by me.

My grandmother's hands sewed,

that merrily cut through,

sewing birthday dresses,

and make me a princess,

among those native lines.

Those hands of hers,

had so much magic in her,

as she sat near the hearth.

My grandmother's hands may be blue,

and the skin may have stooped,

but those soft skins,

still remember things,

and within the veins run,

the pride of a woman who won,

But even though that,

her hands are made of cotton.

My grandmother's hands have cleaned mounds of dust,

from every nook and corner,

swept floors and restrooms,

and some places that burnt like hot coals and had,

grey- black ashes,

which mark her diligence,

for they have cleaned,

centuries-old stardust.

My grandmother's hands to me,

are something that opened storybooks for me,

and made me learn how to,

write names for me.