The Washing of Hands

A sacred rite in itself this process!

Little hands so busy throughout the day.

Water washes away the evidence

of wondrous childhood awakenings.

Tiny knots of doing, slithering and slinking in and out 

of grown up maker’s creators.

I watch as it trickles through our fingers like time,

Just as it once did through my mothers and mine.

Oh but she brings the sacred to the sacrifice: the wonder to the work

I know that one day I will have to let go,

for she will wash her own hands soon enough.

But for now I breath them in, all soap and sweetness, and smile!

Reviews

[charlie]

It is an honour to tend another's needs. It is bonus atop of blessing to tend our children thus. And so, too, a kind moment to share in this - your comely poem.

Breathe deeply, Bonny! Breath all the way to your tippy-toes, for by the next breathe they will have grown already...