Her map on mine

The back of my hand, caught in the light,

shows the same blue thread,

a pattern learned by second sight,

the lessons she had fed.

Small spots appear, a faded mark,

where sun and years have pressed.

A map of hers, within the dark

of my own flesh, confessed.

These working parts, these aging bones,

repeat a story, old and true.

Her lines, her calloused tones,

in every thing I try to do.