Life is a broken bowl, held together
by the cup of a tired woman‘s hands.
History is written in swirls of dishwater,
crusty scent of freshly baked bread,
quick tilling of hard garden soil,
the relenting sigh of turned down sheets.
She knows how to touch a child,
a friend, a neighbor, a lover;
wicks pain with warmth of heart,
easy, the way a hot iron eats wrinkles.
Woman is the keeper of secrets,
practiced and painted smile,
under storm of hurricane eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem