She notiiiced the tremors were getttting worse

This terrrrified her

She had always relied on her intelllligence

Yet this requiiired her hands to work

After all, for 25 years she has writttten for a liviiing

But after her BMW kissssed a freight truck last November

Before that delightful triiip to Italy and France

To write about love and wiiine and her passion for hiiigh fashion

She had to hiiire an editor.

~Just L (September 28, 2018)

Palm Reader

My man does not know I study his hands more often than I survey his face. His, strong and freckled, which cover my own, fragile and tanned. I compare and contrast our fingers entwined. His hands are substantially larger, and I welcome the heat of his palm warming mine. Closing my eyes I discover the alchemy of the ordinary and the divine. Precious bands on our right note a sentimental history. Some scars continue to remain a mystery. I am intrigued by all he has held in his grip and still holds in his heart. Yet my mouth forms no questions. My research requires no answers that have not already been found in his eyes or in his kiss. I trace his life line with my index finger logging a thousand love stories with my eyes wide open.

IMG_2419-Just L (found poem, March 22, 2015)