In Her Hands

 Amid the sweetest smell of viburnum

and a multitude of orchids, orchids

that emerged from bark, orchids coming

to light from moist moss 

I become aware of her hands.

In her hands, pointed as if in prayer,

she held pale lavender simple

rosary beads

a countenance of tranquillity

and grace.

The priest said she was an

ordinary woman who lived an

extraordinary life:

widowed at forty, mother of three,

grandmother, greatgrandmother

unlimited kindness and sacrifice.

Her hands held me and together we cried

the day my father died. Her hands opened

the door for me when my own mother

rejected me; her hands washed the dishes

in the sink, and did the laundry the week

of her grandson's birth knowing I could not

walk a step.

Her hands gave blessings to others

acts unaware and unsolicited and

her hands taught not with didactedness

but with movements of reserved

consideration, always listening.

Fran reminds me of the color purple,

not  royalty or blue-blooded,

rather queenly though, an eminence

radiant.

In her hands, I place a

diminutive  bouquet

of violets.

 This poem is dedicated to my mother-in-law who died recently at the age of 93.  She was a simple and kind woman of grace.