Whose are these,
these fingers,
that tamp gently
upon my face?
Layer after layer
of plaster strips
softened, gently pressed
then smoothed
upon the ridges and folds
of my cheeks, nose and chin.
I hear the quiet comments
of one daughter to another
saying, Here, and, There,
and I relax into another year
of camp where the years
themselves layer,
each upon the other,
creating one memory from
many memories that I will
take to the gates on my death
and say, These days, these moments,
were the finest of my life.
A Thread You Follow 