Gnarly hands finger the fringes of her shawl,
finger the knots as she once she used to tell her beads,
touch the softness as they once caressed
her babies’ skin, their father’s just-shaved face.
She stops to swipe a tear that caravans
down the furrows of her weathered cheek,
betrays the smile she gives to me while sharing
stories of the life that makes her who she is today.
And when I stop to take her hand in mine
her strong grip closes tightly round my own
as though to circle hope and hold it near,
as though to stave off my departure.
Today, guest poet Mish, invites us to consider hands in writing and submitting our poems to dVerse Poetics. Please join us to read and submit a poem of your own.