She
has hands
that shoot
moonbeams
of comfort
into
sleepy
cold
Earth
where peppers grow
sweet
She
has hands
that cradle
dreams
into
rock-a-bye baby
mother me
where life’s knots will go
untied
and drip away
through
tired eyes
and volumes
of “thank you”.
She
has hands
I want to massage
until they get their fair rest
but her hands
are the best.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem