Her hands of seventy years
Teach without saying a word
All those baby’s heads cradled
All of her recipes stirred
Delighting in gardens she’s planted
Her hands bring deliverance
Pure fluidity like a young child
Textured by experience
All the stitches embroidered
All the cake flour sifted
So intricate, seasoned, lovely those
Hands creatively gifted
Precisely she chooses vegetables
So tenderly and knowing
Arranging flowers from her garden
All those seeds she’s still sowing
With hands of seventy years
Assured intention without guessing
That teach me without speaking
Is why I can’t forget the lesson

As he gazed on my face
I saw waves of emotion
rise and crash
in his deep almond eyes
and I became a river
hurtling down to join
the mighty current

When he whispered to me
honeyed words of passion
in the enormity of silence
I blossomed
into
a red tulip of love

As he played on the strings
of my heart’s violin
I got tuned
into an alluring symphony

When he held my palms
I evolved into
a beautiful painting
on a blank canvas

When he cupped my face
to stamp on my lips
the seal of love
I became
a flitting butterfly

When he lifted me up
in his arms
all the stars came down
to see the spark in my eyes
wondering if it outdid
their combined lustre