Hands

My hands will be wrinkled when I get old

Sewing the stories my life has just told.

There's so many things I still want to see.

Creating beauty as days go by.

When I was a child, my mom's hands I'd hold.

We would pray together, her hands would fold.

I used them to color and climb a tree

Discovering everything meant for me.

I use my hands for poetry I write

While hoping for words to come just right.

Some gifts for others my hands will crochet.

They are special to them in every way.

Yesterday I took some photos of clouds

Floating so high above all the crowds.

I looked at the sky through lens in my grip

As all the clouds slowly started to slip.