My mother's hands feel like a gentle feather
slides by my cheeks
like the sunlight shines through the clouds
like falling into a pile of soft pillows
like the leaves of an oak tree drop on the water of a pond
a strawberry being surrounded by milk
a puppy trying to lick my palm
like shooting stars streaking the night sky of August
Like the cherry blossom petals crazily attack me on the street
with the support of breezes
like wearing a silk nightgown after a shower
like the vanilla ice cream melting in the cup
an umbrella cover the homeless cat for raindrops
a caramel apple covered with sweet sticky icing.
like holding a bowl of hot soup when staying at a small cafe down the street
to escape the storm.
Like the waves slapping the cobblestones on the bank
like the handkerchief wiping the tears and strains off the child's face
an arrow flying right to the centre of the target
an elastic band that never breaks
a piece of kraft paper that pack up my sorrow
and the strenghth of the person that I would always love
Note: The blue part of my poem is intended to describe the fact that my mother is not young any more and her hands have some certain specialities since she does the housework all the time. Her hands are strong and tenacious as well as they are warm and gentle. They are mild and soft but time also has some impact on them
