(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)
Sunny with a Chance of Clouds 
Your poem is very touching and the internal rhymes are good. The linking of the twomen in your life is so creative!! Well done!
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Thank you!
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Very beautiful and touching, Peggy.
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Thanks.
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“Mine hides in his.” Don’t know if I’m reading this in the way you intended….but I love this little snippet. It reminds me of walking hand in hand with my dad — who was not a demonstrative man. So that touch, my hand in his, was very special. And he too had big hands….so mine was “swallowed” in it and I always felt somehow protected when my hand was “hidden” in his. You’ve made me smile….thank you for the memory!
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You’re welcome!
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Very nice Peggy!
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Thanks, Julie!
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