MUSED
BellaOnline Literary Review
Sorcerer by Deb Bonam

Poetry


Mature Hands

Michelle Anne Cope

They crave more lotion
these days.
My hands
decorated by God
with liver-colored spots.

Used and worn
from work and worry
My hands
have yet to betray meó
it must be angels that
keep them from
twisting and curling
into painful knots.

The pair,
my hands,
my dependable friends;
they serve me well.
We grow together.
The priceless tools of my trade
these seasoned hands
still have much to do.


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