My mother has tiny fingers,
restless, carefree; delightfully
alive, kindle everything good
and warm with a fairy charm.
Subtle vagaries in subliminal
illumination, as her soldiers
march; screams of ticklish
surprises sprinkled with love.
Melting into the hug sublime,
flashes of the Sistine fresco;
her finger of human
divinity
sparks the life in my being.
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