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The Hands of Time
A white stool sits
on the carpeted floor
of a bedroom
brown, dirty metal peaks through
weathered white paint
yellow stains scattered along the surface
the hands of time haphazard
and careless
A woman perches
on the stool
deep lines carved into her face
show her age
skin bunched and drooping
know her mistakes
the hands of time relentless
and unforgiving
A baby sleeps
in the arms of the woman
olive skin untouched
and pure
observant eyes and curious hands
proclaim innocence
the hands of time gentle
and new
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One day I was sitting in my bedroom trying to think of something, anything, to write about, and this old stool in the corner of my bedroom caught my attention; the idea spiraled from there.