Her hands were maps the lines worn and deep

Her hands were maps, the lines worn and deep,

tracing the stories I thought I could keep.

Soil-stained fingers held laughter and fears,

a bouquet of wildflowers, each petal a year.

I find an old card, the ink fading slow,

the message a comfort, still warm from her glow.

Rough skin and soft touch, a blend so divine,

a piece of her warmth, forever entwined.