Comments about Raffael PonceValencia
My Father's Hands
In his hands sometimes lays the snow.
Often times he lets the flakes breathe upon the receiving warmth of his knuckles.
They lay there for a second or two,
They stare up into his eyes, and with a thankful silent nod; they melt away.
They melt away grateful.
In his hands sometimes lays the fire.
Often times he lets her resist the force of his lifting palms.
Palms resisting each other.