a poem in my pocket

I remember sitting as a girl

in the raftered balcony of the church

during morning worship service,

craddling my mother’s hand in my lap;

examining creases in her warm palm,

tracing distinct veins across the back,

touching the smooth pale pink polish

on her clean, neatly shaped nails,

fingering the circle of her wedding ring;

turning its diamond to catch the light

filtering through stained glass windows,

trying to glimpse each rainbowed hue.

Mom thought her hands were “too large”

but those dear hands were just big enough

to shape hearts and home, to hold our family

together, with their faithful, gentle work of love.