M Kaur
A
My mother’s hands
Soft, gentle, always moving,
Stirring, kneading, rolling,
Picking hot rotis off the griddle,
Fingers stained yellow with turmeric,
“One more bite,” she’d plead,
As if filling my stomach filled her heart as well. #PoetryPrompt
Liz N Is Tired of the Nonsense @knitquiltsewst1
05:36 PM - Aug 20, 2023
06:51 PM - Aug 20, 2023 (Edited)
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