Some days are Sunny, others are a B*tch

Jan 5, 2026 A poem for my Mom

My Mother’s Hands


Never still, always in flight
delicate as a bird’s wings’.
Fingers fly, telling life’s stories
pulling at ones’ heartstrings.

From morning to night,
her fingers did magic tricks.
Flour, eggs and love whipped
into a marvelous culinery mix.

She had all the answers
Like an angel or a good witch.
Patching up my booboos;
kisses of love for each stitch.

Her hands brought warm hugs,
to cold winter days.
Special hot chocolate with marshmallows
welcomed friends in to play.

Her paintings told stories.
Needle point held dreams
of victories and past glories,
childhood secrets in scenes.

The many hats she wore
showed talents and skills galore.
A nation she could have run,
time and compassion for everyone.

Years of sorrow and joy.
Splendid holidays, hospital stays,
tough times she weathered.
Love always saved the day.

Then came one day in May,
her hands declined to talk or mend.
Old and wrinkled, quiet they lay.
A life well lived came to an end.

Kathie Stehr
2026