רגשות וטון (tone)

My grandmother's hands are maps of every road she ever knew: blue rivers under thin, soft skin, and lines that tell her story too.

In the morning they are busy birds that fly from bread to soup to tea. They move as quickly as the wind and button up my coat for me.

Long ago, they planted lemons when this land was new to her, and dry. The old tree still remembers them and lifts its yellow lamps up high.

Today her fingers shake a little, slow as winter, soft as snow. I hold them gently in my own: they taught me everything I know.

My grandmother's hands are maps of every road she ever knew: blue rivers under thin, soft skin, and lines that tell her story too.

In the morning they are busy birds that fly from bread to soup to tea. They move as quickly as the wind and button up my coat for me.

Long ago, they planted lemons when this land was new to her, and dry. The old tree still remembers them and lifts its yellow lamps up high.

Today her fingers shake a little, slow as winter, soft as snow. I hold them gently in my own: they taught me everything I know.

My grandmother's hands are maps of every road she ever knew: blue rivers under thin, soft skin, and lines that tell her story too.

In the morning they are busy birds that fly from bread to soup to tea. They move as quickly as the wind and button up my coat for me.

Long ago, they planted lemons when this land was new to her, and dry. The old tree still remembers them and lifts its yellow lamps up high.

Today her fingers shake a little, slow as winter, soft as snow. I hold them gently in my own: they taught me everything I know.