MY GRANDMOTHER’S HANDS

Wooden, the tub,
Rhythmic, the pace,
We are churning Milk into Butter.
Stove warms my back.
Crackle of Fire,
Aroma of Warm Bread,
Hint of Barn
Saturates the Kitchen.
Sunlight, filtered through Leaves
Dimly enters
Dusty, musty space:
Her Silence thickens the Air.
Salt & Pepper Crown of Hair
Circles her Face.
Cerulean eyes gaze
At nothing in particular.
Up & Down; Up & Down.
My Hands next to hers,
Her Strength, my yearning.
Now, her Hands are mine.

H. Victoria Morgan
April 10, 2010