Written for: The Twiglets #229 - cupped hands
She cups her hands
gather no moss.
sits at the stream
making small waves in water
with cupped hands
There was a man born with strange hands
At the ends of his wrists were cups, and
though he could not write
he was quite the sight
at water fountains and popcorn stands.
I am a freelance poet, born and bred in Brooklyn, New York. I live with my husband, John, and two charming rescue dogs–Marion Miller and Murphy. We spent eight lovely years in Portland, OR, but are now back in New York.
My goal is to create and share poetry with others
who write, or simply enjoy reading poetry. I hope to touch a nerve
in you, and feel your sparks as well.
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Little twiglets of wisdom those first three.
I thought of Edward Scissor hands when I read the limerick… but I never did watch that movie.
It was a good movie. Thanks, Jules.
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I love one and four esp. Makes me think of small, wonder filled children.
I like that second little gem, especially.
Nicely done poem.
Love the waves of water.