Mother's Hands
Strong enough to lift me each time I couldn't rise. Soft as cotton wool, washing dirt from scrapes and tears from eyes. Firm enough to model clay and boys, to bowls and men, yet fine when stroking ivory keys-- Für Elise and Clair de Lune. They'd curl through each long evening around her only vice, in a holder like Audrey's, that never left her side. I'm thinking of her hands now-- strong and wild and free; missing her hands now, as I watch ashes blow to sea. Ryan Stone This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Ryan Stone is a freelance writer from Melbourne, Australia. He shares his home in the Dandenong Ranges with his wife, two young sons and a German Shepherd. On daily walks through his forest surrounds, he often peers down rabbit holes.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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January 2021
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