(My grandfather died when I was in middle school. I didn’t meet my husband until I was in college. Yet, I think they would have liked each other.)
Papa, in heather gray, raked the colors fallen from the trees. He loosened his grip as his large weathered hands – wide thumbs and fingers and calloused palms – tossed the pole onto the pile by the lake. Reaching down, his touch was gentle as he brushed my cowlick behind my ears. My husband reaches out to wipe my tears – the same hands – wide thumbs and fingers and calloused palms. I am comforted. Mine hides in his, like in days past, as we stroll back to the house.
Writing201 Poetry: skin (topic), prose (poetic form), internal rhyme (literary device)