This poem is for my Grandmother whose hands did so much!
In a cozy corner, by the window's soft light,
Sits a woman with hands weathered, yet bright.
Her fingers, once nimble, now worn and slow,
Tell tales of a lifetime in stitches, aglow.
With needle and thread, she weaves tales untold,
In every fabric, a story unfolds.
Quilts stitched with memories, embroidered with care,
Each thread a reminder of moments she'd share.
Knitting and crocheting, her hands never still,
Creating warmth and comfort with every skill.
Cross-stitches of love, threaded through time,
Each pattern a testament, pure and sublime.
Her nails untouched by glamour or gloss,
For she finds beauty in stitches, not loss.
Her hands may be worn, but gentle and kind,
Patting softly, the warmth of her mind.
Years may have passed, but her spirit's still bright,
In every creation, her love takes flight.
I watch in awe as her hands gracefully move,
Crafting wonders, with a heart full of love.
For she's more than a seamstress, more than a knitter,
She's a keeper of memories, a family's transmitter.
With each stitch and each knot, she's left her mark,
In the fabric of lives, even in the dark.
So here's to the woman, with hands soft yet strong,
Whose legacy of love will forever belong.
In the tapestry of time, her work will endure,
A testament to a life lived pure.
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