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An outstretched hand, will you read?
Hands are like scrapbooks, they are a testament of time...and easy to tell who owns them.
Familiar Touches
Just one outstretched hand,
That same old bony thing,
That veined and blue little hand.
Afraid if I touch it, it may disintegrate,
Into little bits of float-way dust.
Scrapbooks, time capsules.
Your novel of a tale to tell,
The lines, the brown speckles and globs
That have been painted there,
Year by year,
Day by day
Kiss by kiss
Farewell by wave.
Your written book
Bird bones that dare to break the
Film of cellophane skin.
The grip so light
The strength so forgotten
The real Nana so crumbled with
The muscle.
The independent, stubborn woman,
Now forlorn in this sad shell.
Your hand, so humbly existing.
Your hands, what I always know.
That touch of love,
That silken feel,
That bursts at the fingertips.
Yearning
Oh, I'm so glad you've all liked it so far!
Beautiful poem, btw, Texas, I like when people answer with them!
Glad you could all relate, always keep your grandmother, great-grandmother, or memories of her close. I know the one this poem refers to is one of the best women in my life, and has always been so loving. Of late, she is losing her memory to the point of forgetting where she is when she wakes up, and she just isn't the same. But her soft touch, that will always be.
5 Answers
- .Lv 71 decade agoFavorite Answer
The transparency of an aged woman's hands seem as though Life sanded away all but a thin film of skin. I had it in mind to write such a poem some time ago, but now that it's written, I won't. Lovely!
- 1 decade ago
Yowee this is so relative, thank you.
I wanna feel good about my gram today.
80 years those hands have toiled
through children, and farming soil
holding them I feel a chill
of a life once lived as a modest thrill,
but too still her strength projects
she still hugs, still wants to protect
together we hold transferring joy and fears
both finding each stained with tears.
- cassie58Lv 71 decade ago
Oh your poem took me on a trip. A nostalgic one where Great Grandma was searching for her hairpins on the table, and she couldn't see them. I saw them and also noticed her thin blue-veined hands reaching out, searching, searching. Your poem is lovely and so was the place you transported me to. Thank you
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