I Am Not An Artist Poem by Amy Bengtson

I am no artist, but
In a frame on my wall,
In blue paint with smeary edges,
Are your tiny hand prints
That once I pressed there.
They used to fit so well in mine
When you didn't wiggle and pull them away.
It was hard to let go of those little hands.
It still is.
But holding on too long just hurts us both.
Now, we do as big hands do
And wipe away our tears
And remember.
And remember to continue
Painting our lives in blue little handprints
Of moments past that can never be again.
I glance back at the wall
And now I can see just how many
Little hands in little frames
Hang on that wall of mine,
Smeared in blue paint.
Perhaps I am an artist of sorts after all.