Small, white mottled with creamed coffee blotches,
dark blue veins stand out as raised rivers
of old blood, draining these tiny islands
The skin wonderfully wrinkled in folds,
all hills and valleys, no smooth plains here
These hands in decades past caressed the hot
brows of sick children, fed them peppermint tea;
chopped, stirred, cooked one hundred thousand meals
washed and dried a million dishes and spoons.
Folded diapers, ironed pinafores, straightened collars
Their work done at last, sweet Oma gently smiles
while her hands lie at rest on her lap
curled up like flower petals with colors faded,
growing ever thinner, drying to dust,
still as stone monuments centuries old