Pieces of your calico dress,
Of my first try at my own,
Of sisters’ little dress,
Your cotton thread stitches,
I mend those time-weakened ones.
The mapled smell of your pipe,
Your calloused touch of its bowl,
Cuddled as your hand once did,
Creating its own patina.
I hold it to my nose in my palms.
A kitchen hard glass bowl
Your arm circled it
As you beat birthday cakes
Through your ages.
I run fingers over a tiny chip.
To think of touched
Hand-me-downs,
Your DNA, your parents’, too, woven
Into fabric or old things
I caress their surface, blending mine with yours.
Varnish smeared by you,
On the old fish bucket,
Giving new purpose to
A Hand me down.
I smooth your smears.
Fingerprints of those
Gone on but not gone,
I touch that that you touched
And our hands touch, our spirits flow.
I catch eternity.
Touch on touch is
At its best it seems in
Hand me downs,
Left givens by the ages
To the very old young ones.
© By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)
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