My mother’s hair
is silk-soft,
she breathes
a deer breath
and surrenders
to my hands.
Long ago
she washed me,
her sure fingers
combing through
my hair.
Now I pray
her wounded heart
finds solace
in my touch.
She tires quickly
and I wrap her warm.
Her dark eyes
thank me,
she is too tired
for words,
but it is I
who is grateful
to feel my mom’s
silk-soft wisps
through my fingers,
to thank her
for my life.