Skin so soft, I hesitate to touch it sometimes with my age-worn own. My knuckles, a roughened ridge spanning the width of my hand. Yours, an innocent row of dimples where hand meets fingers. When you reach up to hold my hand – or maybe just a finger or two – I am honored. It’s a gift, so swift in the offering that one might miss it, mistake it as just something we do, holding hands. But I catch it, and hold it, and tuck the feeling away in my mind, like a hand slipping into a glove, to keep warm for when coldness sets in.


WordPress Writing 201, Assignment Three. Prompt: skin. Form: prose poem. Device: internal rhyme.

About Maggie C

Stained glass artist, writer, respecter of life.
This entry was posted in humanity, poetry, serious stuff, Writing 201 and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

12 Responses to GLove

  1. officezombie1 says:

    That was lovely.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is a clever poem, many layers. Thanks for sharing!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. rosemawrites says:

    Oh wow. It can be interpreted as a mother and child or a baby and a granny! Nice one. 😀

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Superb poem. I love the contrasting image you opened your poem with 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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