For the lovely lady who was so encouraging to me when I began writing a little poetry blog…
Grace some have held the gloved hand of grace, Looked briefly at their own reflected self, Closed their eyes to begin their eternal dream Of what might have been, or is still to come. Those gloves are discarded, as they must be, But the fingers within felt the needs of others. One pulse racing, the other dwindling down A last, lingering empathetic embrace. One day those gloved hands will hold a child In winter, on a slope, sledging near their home. The hand, like the heart, needs to feel joy once more as sorrow Recedes to a memory of being the last one there.
©2020 Brian Shirra
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