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Vera Kilgore Heilig: Her Poetry Lives (2017) H. Morris Williams, Marie Law Haire
My Mother
My Mother’s hands are worn, the knuckles gnarled.
The veins stand out in dark relief against pale ivory
Mottled and marked with scars of service
My Mother’s hands are beautiful.
My Mother’s face is lined. Her once smooth skin
Hangs now in wrinkled folds from cheek-bone peaks.
Her eyes look out with weary wisdom.
Her lips are thin; her nose drawn fine.
My Mother’s face is beautiful.
I cannot see inside but I am sure
My Mother’s heart is not a lacy valentine.
When I was small she had a stoneware crock
That kept her cow’s milk fresh and sweet.
I think her heart looks like that crock.
She tilts it up, just so, and pours out kindness.
My Mother’s heart is beautiful.
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