My Mother’s Hair

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.

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