Beulah's Hand

 

Beulah's Hand

The work of your fingers adorns our home—geometric
progressions of black and scarlet on grays and fleece white

Blindness stole time from your comb and batten
your daughter kneeled at your loom and made whole

The row where your touch ends and hers begins
speaks softly through the wool's breath

She finished your pattern but
she was not you