Grandmothers Hands
As a child I would place my closed eyes
in them
while she hummed Gaelic melodies
neither she nor I had words for.
Her apron, it was brown
like a butchers smock
but with not a speck of blood upon it
only daubs of fruit dumplings
and the savor of rose-hip
and elderberry flowers.
Her hands were upon her lap
and in them I placed my lips
and upon those lips
the four seasons came together
melded there.
At times, by candle light
I would read her old hands
the lines upon them
were paths of wisdom
I now but partly understand.
Grandmother had large hands
large enough for my heart
and hers.
When they closed
It was as if a flower had closed
at the end of day.
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