Worn Hands

Her face was wrinkled
like the worn leather
on the cover of her Bible.
With craigs formed
from frowns and smiles,
tears of pain,
sorrow, and joy.
At the end
she was like an infant again
forgetting how to breathe;
taking her naps
in the afternoon sun.
Until one day she went down
and never awoke again.
Slipped away in sleep.
One breath in this world
the next breath in the new one.
While those that remain
try to remember better days
when she smiled
and squeezed their hands
baked and laughed.
She worked with her hands
ploughing through life,
kneading dough for bread
kneading soil for flowers
kneading her own heart
until it resembled the one she loved most.
Her hands were as worn as her face
they had held babies, then children,
rough hands of men, husband and sons
and then babies, children
teenagers adults.
It was then that those worn hands
were ready to let go.