Old Pair of Hands

Her hands
traveled a great distance in time
from her mother’s nourishing bosoms
led by her father’s sturdy palms

Her hands
was given away to a trustworthy man
whose gentle touch unlocked her heart
overflown with joy

Her hands
were latched on by tiny fingers
fragile and angelic
never ever letting go

Her hands
traveled afar in the land
from the touch of life giving soil and rain
to the production line and paperwork
the wrinkles told of her life long hard work
the sun spots apprised her of a blessed long life

Aging

To dye or not to dye my grey hair
that is the question
Should I pretend it is just
a dandelion landing on my hair
a snowflakes resting before melting
a whisper haunting me about youth no more

To care or not to care about my appearance
that is the question
Should I proudly parade
my crown of glory
a godly life inclined
but a constant battle
to shut off
the angel of light

To be or not to be myself
that is the question
Should I not be satisfied with
ageing gracefully
over the need to be the queen bee

To dye or not to dye my grey hair
that is the question
which has nothing to do with beauty
It has everything to do with
where my identity lies

 

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