"Who got milled, my mother or the grain?"

Callused hands, chipped nails, coloured taints
Shedding each peel,
Suppleness lost in the careworn days
The toil, the tussle, the tugging
The role of a mother lugging
Tangled tresses, twining
Could it be as tiresome as my own thinking?
The bulge  of  the once curvaceous
Brow beaten, as the furrowed lines deepening
The jagged contours of my fingers
Creasing along the pain, the pleasure to be born
As the criss cross lines on my palm
They grip the mighty role of being nature’s bearer
They need to hold on too, to the pillar of  being  a mother?
C