Their Hands

It’s cold. This morning, when I left for work, the temperature was four below zero. Sheesh!! I started thinking spring, and trees, and warmth. Now home from work, I share a simple poem, a warm poem, in part, born from cold.

Their Hands

I’d like to nest
beneath an oak,
its limbs as knarled

as an ancient man’s fingers,
consider its shadow
as my children,

bouncing through
the warmth of an aging
afternoon, wave at me,

their hands
rising from the tall grass
like wildflowers.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Tourist Trap.”


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