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Grandpa's Hands

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Grandpa's Hands were like the thunder,
and his eyes were the color of new life
riding on the backs of warm, western winds.
And my mama, well, she was made of Desert Storms.
Her all but silent footsteps
were the wail of a thousand raindrops that would never touch the ground.
It has always been too dry here,
for the girl who sang to thunder.



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