Mother

Her beautifully furrowed brow 

burdened with stress and anxiety

fell softly as she dug

her staunch, sun kissed knuckles

deep into the caves of floured dough. 

These hands touched lives and

experienced the wonders of life

before I was even born. 

The movement of the cracked, "ear-like" texture

reminded me of the rolling mountains 

that lay beside our quaint home. 

The same home that witnessed 

our childhood and a myriad of canning sprees

that lasted through the dead of night.

This kitchen was where my mother always stood

enjoying the sweet tenderness of summer 

and the absence of her "real" job. 

The ripe tomatoes were the same color

as the blood she scanned in the hospital,

but the excitement was nonexistent.

While she sat In her diminutive four walled room

she felt trapped and torn

from the life she created in the garden.

She surrounded her life with her kindred Mother 

and began to dig her nails deep into the soil.