My Mother's Hands

When I was only twenty-one

My hands were slim and fine;

And all the world and I well knew

None were so soft as mine.

I looked with scorn at Mother's hands

That were no longer fair.

I didn't know that love for me

Had etched the wrinkles there.

But when my mother's hands were still

Forever, ever more,

I saw such beauty through my tears

As I'd not known before.

Now that I tend my own hearth fire,

I pray, when my work's done,

My hands will look like Mother's did

When I was twenty-one.

-- Ethel Boehm Foth