Hands

My mother always caressed my hands,

and I was always warmer than her.

It was hard for me to understand,

but warm hands are what most people prefer.

 

Fast Forward awhile--

things have changed.

After plenty of winters,

It seems that the circumstances have been rearranged.

 

I grab for her hands

whenever mine feel too cold.

These days I find it very often

that I must be consoled.

 

All the nerves in my fingertips

struggle against the frozen ache.

Strength fades, it's the eclipse.

I take one

last desperate lunge

towards her

just before I break.

 

Four fingers on top of mine

after a day in the snow.

They exude heat into the numb;

the prickly sensation comes.

I can’t let go.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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