So Fingertips Kiss Five kids, eight years: Then one June day my wife shouts to me on the mower roaring in the yard: “I’ve had enough.” And like a ballerina, she rises on one foot, sole of the other foot firm against her knee. With arms overhead so fingertips kiss, she smiles, pirouettes, and lifts like a ‘copter into the air, clears the garage and keeps rising. I can do nothing now but applaud and be proud. As if at the ballet, I clap from the mower and await the explosion as she hits the sun. Donal Mahoney |
If you have any comments on this poem, Donal Mahoney would be
pleased to hear them.
