The Wavering ghazal for great – grandmother Ruth

by Caroline Adams

A pair so slender conjoins; twin hands,
at ends reach the fragile skin of hands.

Innocence not nearly as pure as the calm,
wrestled only by the constant spin of hands.

Rest to the drowsy brush of silken dawn,
spreading evenly, triangles of light therein hands.

O’ how they press so heavily upon each other’s palms!
Cupping the shortened breath of light within hands.

Two, fleeing the ever–pasty air of morn,
they reach to grasp the linen with hands.

Hanging as coats against the small hills,
a couple of gentle – reaching, pinned hands.

Only a daze rests upon the day, as eyelids,
they shelter the distance with twin hands.

Touching her collarbone, light as water,
they carry the line of glow until hers become dim hands.