Mesmerized, I push them
back and forth
beneath
the skin.
Patience proven, I delve
deeper, digging worms from
Grandmom’s hands.
Noontimes playing
Go Fish
end
with me cardless,
spade in hand,
turning soil,
dredging bait
in her loamy, compost hands.
Green, now blue, her worms they furrow
between roots, knuckles
gnarled with sorrows,
rich
with kin.
Too, too young, my worms
dig in;
hers can’t hide
beneath parchment, thin.
I can't wait
to grow old;
with child on knee
I'll play Go Fish,
and watch her stare
hypnotized,
digging worms
from Grandmom's hands.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones