My hands look like her hands.
My knuckles remind me of a mountain ridge in the La Platas.
I see more brown spots and veins that look like the running river called Animas.
My hands look like her hands.
Her hands picked cotton before daylight yawned.
Her hands bled from the work on the farm.
Her hands were next to the four sisters in the fields.
When her husband rode a tank in the South Pacific, her hands sorted mail in the Post Office.
As a young bride, her hands wore smart black gloves to match her new black hat as she strutted down Main Street.
Now her hands make jelly from the freshly picked plums.
Now her hands bake sugar cookies and tend the sick.
Now her hands are quiet as she sits near the window to watch her world.
My hands look like her hands and I am happy.
Sweetie Marbury
Durango
