Sadness touches me
like an old ladies hand
across a kitchen table.

Her old wrinkled knuckles
rest lightly on my arm,
with wisdom in lines
etched into her skin,
but they mean nothing.

Her weak arms steady
my walk to the lawn
patterned by rectangle
shards of flat light.

The snowdrop spathes
have pushed through now,
and look ready to be cut
for gourd glass vases.

Their delicate white perianth
as sign of comfort
bowed in wait of grass,
after the tiredness of winter.

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