Magic

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.