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The Political Issue
Vol. 4 Issue 2
The Hands
by Sheri Fulton
Her hair like wisps of smoke,
Framing a mind that's blowing by.
A chimney stack releasing memories,
Even those of who she use to be.
Her gnarled hands touch me tenderly,
Veined, withered skin, smooth-satiny.
How beautiful she seems,
My loving memories crowding me.
A widening tunnel engulfing,
Yet my hand holds unrelinquishing
I will not let her go and yet it is to be so.
My fingers are slipping, one by one,
Unable to regather the sands.
There is no stopping the slipping,
The slipping of the hands.