28.10.2008
Hold this pen. I write
To them and wonder
Why are they so white,
Nails broken from neglect
Their lines, reminder of
Life lived
And death to come
They touch my face
Dress me in the morning
Have brushed the hair of my children
Sometimes they were cold
Gripping handles of a bike
Sometimes they were warm
When I caressed a lover
Sometimes they tried to hold air
When that lover left
And now in trance they feed
this page with words
That flow from my mind
About them
Elizabeth Van Brooks 