Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Poetry of Nancy Wood





The hands that I remember

were of my father cutting down the tree

Asking forgiveness for its death.


The hands that I remember

were of my mother showing me

The purpose of a flower.


The hands that I remember

were of my brother killing rabbits

So he might later kill the deer.


The hands that I remember

were of my sister digging earth

To discover a newborn tree.


The hands that I remember

were of my grandfather teaching me

The way to the mountain of my life.






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