Just a Poem Written by Gordon Smith

From: Gordon Smith
Date: Fri, 5 Dec 2008 13:25:23 -0700

Hi Myrna,
I highlighted the poem and transferred it here.  I have the poem single spaced with double spaces between each four lines.  I also have it in two columns on one page.  However,  when I transferred it, it double spaced it all into one long column.  Oh well, you can still read it.  Sorry!  I didn't know what else to do.  I could have just typed it in the email.  However, I don't know how to set up two columns in the email format.
Love,
Gordon

Handprints Upon My Heart 
I had finished cleaning the house,
and had sat down to relax.
When he came bounding through the door,
leaving ugly muddy tracks.
He was not just any boy, 
he was mine, of my flesh and blood.
But there across my bright clean floor,
he had left a trail of mud.
I screamed so loud he stopped right still,
then he turned to look at me.
Looking as I pointed at the floor,
“I’ll clean that up” said he.
Then off he ran to get some toy,
so a friend and he could play.
When he got back, he found a bucket, 
which was blocking his way.
Looking sad, he picked up the rag 
from the bucket I had there.
Squeezing soapy water from the rag,
he gave a pleading stare.
“You made this mess. You will clean it up.”
was my angry reply.
On his knees, as he spread the mud,
he said, “Mother I will try.”
While I watched him try his best,
slowly anger melted away.
Then I took the rag, told him thanks,
and said, “Now you run and play.”
I found I had what all mothers have,
it’s called a mother’s curse.
Let him help you, then do it yourself ,
before he makes it worse.
I cleaned up the mud around me,
I stood up to look for more.
I found no mud until looking up,
found handprints on the door.
The prints made by his muddy hands
were as plain as they could be.
I was angry again, then I thought,
at least he’s here to see.
I wiped off the mud, then looked out
the window to watch him play.
Thinking to myself, how wonderful,
that he’s with me today.
There were many more times when I found
handprints upon my door.
That still disturbed me, but anger soon left, 
as it had before.
For, without children and their handprints, 
a house is not a home.
Too soon those handprints, and their maker,
had left me all alone.
I now stare out of the window, and look 
where he used to play.
And wish for some handprints to clean up
upon the door that day.
I’m thankful he’s not far away,
and often comes to see me.
He, and his own sweet wife, 
are starting their own family tree.
And soon I will have grandchildren,
who will come to do their part,
Making handprints upon my door,
and handprints upon my heart.

--Gordon F. Smith--
November 4, 2008
To my wife, who is my sweetheart, for putting up with me, all of our sons and daughters, and a lifetime of taking care of our needs. In return, she gave us love.

From Myrna:
How beautiful! You have a gift. You really should share that gift more. I still have tears in my eyes. Thanks, Myrna