The Wrinkled Hand

Bring Here that chair dear,
The wrinkled hand said.
And so I brought and set it down
for her hands to rest.

Rest they did not-
as lips told tales of long ago.
Wise eyes intensely twinkled and teared-
Remembering.

The life source in my chest,
reached achingly to heal the wrinkled hand
of her pain, and all of that she feels.

The hand- Sensing my empathy,
patted my worried arm.
The eyes reassured- nothing is wrong.
Lips smiled comforting,
and my ears listened.

Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem