Oh, how I miss those tiny hands,
so agile, they beguiled.
Beside your bed, at night you'd pray;
On tiny hands God smiled.
In Winter, mittens barely filled
somehow you'd build with ease,
a snowman with a "hat of straw"
that toppled, in the breeze.
With Springs arrival, colors bright,
a "special flower" you'd find.
Those tiny hands would pluck, just one;
A yellow dandelion.
Come Summer, on that tiny hand
a baseball glove would grow.
It seemed to be attached somehow
no matter where you'd go!
The chill of Fall, with winds so brisk
that leaves came tumbling down,
and tiny hands would gather them;
The orange, the red, the brown.
Oh, how I miss those tiny hands,
so agile they beguiled.
Beside my bed, at night I pray,
and thank God for that child.
by: Copyright © Samantha
1989
