Mother's Hands, by Ryan Stone
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.
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.
The Ekphrastic Review
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