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Bill’s Hands

Soft, gentle, they caressed me,

once milked cows, fed livestock, gathered eggs,

tapped computer keys in a busy office,

glided back and forth along Braille pages,

placed a ring on my finger, as he said, “I do.”

When one hand no longer worked,

the other was just as reassuring.

Now, they’re both gone

but will be remembered.

 

 

This poem was published in Voxpoetica.