My hands say a lot about me.....

My hands are not soft and manicured.
They are not neat and well-kept.
They are wrinkled with uncountable
Lines and cuts and scars.
My cuticles are torn
And frequently raw and bleeding.
I have had as many as five fingers bandaged
At any given time to conceal the wounds.
They are so rough that they embarrass me.
The nails are cracked and split.
My fingers are not delicately tapered
Or elegant
Nor do they flutter gracefully
Like bird's wings or silk scarves in the wind.
They do not have the sensitivity they once had.
These hands used to coax new lives into the world.
They tenderly caressed and comforted.\
These same hands prepared old and young for death.
These hands, my hands, abused by thirty years
Of endless washing and banging around....
These hands that would offer you comfort
And tender touches, are so very much aware
Of their ugliness, their harsh abrasiveness.
There is the fear that instead of comfort and joy
That they may hurt or injure.
These hands do not have beauty,
But they have wisdom.
Please let that be enough.