PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My mother's hands smell like spicy, gingerbread,

formed into little men, with smiling faces,

that she dances across the kitchen table.

That smell warms my tummy.

I will be full tonight.



My mother's hands smell like hot, fluffy bubble bath,

sweet and clean, foaming over the edge of the tub,

onto the clawfeet, reaching out to the floor.

That smell makes me giggle.

I will be clean tonight.



My mother's hands smell like roses,

chosen from her garden and arranged upon our armoire,

heavy with petals, and dark perfume.

That smell fills me with contentment.

I will be secure tonight.



My mother's hands smell like fresh linen,

beat stiff from strong breezes,

while clinging to the clothesline.

That smell tickles my nose.

I will be well rested tonight.



My mother's hands smell like dusty, mildewed,

photographs of children with missing teeth,

and tousled unkempt hair,

stored for eternity in the big trunk down the hall.

That smell makes me melancholy.

I will be thoughtful tonight.



My mother's hands smell like warm rainwater,

poured gently through her long auburn hair,

still adhering itself to every strand of her being.

That smell makes me aspire.

I will be ambitious tonight.



My mother's hands smell like "Evening In Paris"

still resting upon every intricate piece of jewelry she owned.

"Wait," my daughter sniffed, "Your hands smell like grandma's."

I will be lonely tonight.