My mother's hands were worn,
tending children, house and garden.
But oh! they were full
of love and of music!
She would sit herself down,
hands still damp from washing
the noontime dishes, towel tossed
carelessly over her shoulder, and
strike a chord, play some
notes, and we children were
swept up and flung star-ward.
Today's prompt: Try a fifty-five word poem. You get eleven five-word lines. Imagine they become a frame or perhaps an empty bowl. Into it place a picture, colorful, worth recalling in silence, or maybe something edible, nourishing. Begin before it is over to paint with your word-brush. Approaching the poem’s abrupt end, try lifting your earth-eyes skyward.