“And about his hands, the song would tell, stumpy and thick and calloused, one open like a flower expecting a bee, the other gripping the knife like tree roots swallowing a rock.”
-Irene Solà, “When I Sing, Mountains Dance”
“And about his hands, the song would tell, stumpy and thick and calloused, one open like a flower expecting a bee, the other gripping the knife like tree roots swallowing a rock.”
-Irene Solà, “When I Sing, Mountains Dance”
The Simile Museum 