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May 2013

Hands

Held in the loving hands of a mother,
you feel security,
you feel warmth.
You feel a comfort so deep you could sleep your problems away.

The careful hands of a young lover
caress you,
explore you,
Tenderly whisper across your skin.

Clammy hands of a working woman
will crawl across a keyboard,
will slave over a hot stove,
will work until they’re raw.

Now your grown hands
hold your children,
feed your children,
raise them like you were once raised.

Withered old hands are
delicate as a flower’s petals,
fragile as a bird’s wings,
but loving as they always were.

And finally,
in the cool grip of death,
you feel
nothing.

© 2013 Eliza G.
Commack High School
Commack, NY
Grade 9

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