Your rumba-drummer-like hands
Have held me
Since that December day
When I first saw the rain
Of my archaic hometown.
Your rumba-drummer-like hands
Have enveloped me
Like a veil protecting a daisy
From the fresh dew
Of spring mornings.
Your rumba-drummer-like hands
Have clapped
When I took my first step
In the veranda where
You used to smoke contemplation.
Your rumba-drummer-like hands
Have waved me
TRUST
When I let them go
My first day of school.
I don’t hear the clap anymore,
I can’t smell contemplation anymore,
But now I strive for a victory
In honor of the memoir
Of that tantalizing clap
Of your rumba-drummer-like hands.
Author notes
This is a dedication to the memory of my grandfather.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
I love the last line of the 3rd stanza, 'you used to smoke contemplation'. i dunno, that just really speaks to me.
-
I like this very much, the images through time, of protection and love, the evocation of rest and contemplation on the verandah watching over the development of a new life. I find such respect in your words, for me very refreshing. I love the beat of /rumba-drummer-like hands/
Adding your comment:
