Last night, by hearth’s faint light,
I noticed that her small hands,
worn from work, weathered with age,
and wise in the ways of making and mending,
were folded like wings on her lap,
ready to take flight into a vast space
that she kept to herself.
Keith Polette has returned to writing poetry after many years. He is grateful that many of his recent poems have been accepted by journals, both print and online.