Her hands

I remember my grandmothers hands
more than anything

The back of her hands
like bark,
hard, rough skin of sundried hours,
with lines of marble written across them
like a map over life not lived

The inside like warm velvet,
a nest for all her forgotten dreams

as if she every day,
secretly
was holding a sunbeam



Poetry by Geir Ove Kvalheim
Read 513 times
Written on 2012-05-25 at 03:00

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Nils Teodor The PoetBay support member heart!
Beautiful
Her warmth and light are still alive
in your heart
Thanks for sharing
N T
2012-05-25