<html><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body dir="auto"><div><div><b>“The Hands Of A Warrior”</b> by Pat A. Fleming</div><div><br></div><div>Purple veins strain against the skin.</div><div>Pale, translucent, paper thin.</div><div>Skinny fingers clawed in monstrous shapes,</div><div>Brown spots from years that she can't erase.</div><div><br></div><div>Now wrinkled and fragile, weak and sore,</div><div>So many things she can't do anymore.</div><div>Some days she feels she's been betrayed</div><div>By the cruelty of her advancing age.</div><div><br></div><div>She rubs her hands to ease the ache</div><div>And recalls the life they helped to make.</div><div>She looks at them and feels the loss,</div><div>Living a life bears a very high cost.</div><div><br></div><div>These hands that held her children near,</div><div>That gently dried their salty tears.</div><div>Hands that held her husband's tight,</div><div>That never let go against the fight.</div><div><br></div><div>Miraculous hands that protected and soothed.</div><div>Hands, they conveyed her every mood.</div><div>Hands so strong they could carry the weight,</div><div>That would never give up and never forsake.</div><div><br></div><div>Those hands that took little but always gave,</div><div>Hands that applauded each achievement made.</div><div>Those soft, sweet hands that gently cared,</div><div>For those sick or lost in dark despair.</div><div><br></div><div>Hands that fussed and fumbled that day</div><div>Her husband gave their daughter away.</div><div>Those hands holding tight as he slowly died,</div><div>Caressing his brow as she stood by his side.</div><div><br></div><div>Hands that rocked her grandson to sleep,</div><div>That gladly took over when others grew weak.</div><div>Hands that once held everyone that she loved,</div><div>And prayed for strength to our God above.</div><div><br></div><div>Hands that were always so willing to give,</div><div>Hands that reveal a life fully lived.</div><div>Small, feeble hands, now empty and cold,</div><div>These hands that each day will keep growing old.</div><div><br></div><div>These hands she now tends to hide away,</div><div>These hands that at times make her feel ashamed.</div><div>Grotesque and useless in her eyes,</div><div>They rest in her lap as she quietly cries.</div><div><br></div><div>But I see the hands of a hero so true,</div><div>A woman who survived what this life put her through.</div><div>A woman whose heart still shimmers like gold,</div><div>With the hands of a warrior who made her mark on this world.</div></div><div><br></div>———————————————<br><br><div dir="ltr"><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Seeya 'round town, Moscow, because . . .</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Moscow Cares" (the most fun you can have with your pants on)</span></div><div><a href="http://www.moscowcares.com/" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000">http://www.MoscowCares.com</font></a></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></div><div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Tom Hansen</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Moscow, Idaho</span></div></div><div><br></div></div></body></html>