MY MOTHER’S HANDS

My mother’s hands
made two yards of lace
for my bridal slip –
the delicate froth swirled beneath my gown,
later to lie beached on a sandy carpet
while we frolicked
in the snowy waves of a hotel bed.

Now the lace,
too precious to cut,
waits like a handful of dried foam
for another gown,
while my mother’s hands
lie still as driftwood in her lap
unable even to hold a teacup with ease.