The sun etched a map 

of memory on top of her hands. 

Rays at 104 degrees as she rafted

the white waters of the Salmon River.

Hands branded with brown spots

remind her children

she is aging. Her hands still grip

and grasp and clutch and touch—

vegetables washed and cut,

dishes scrubbed, the dog walked. 

When she glances the new terrain near 

her thumb and forefinger, her feet

dangle again in the cool river.

The raft glides at a slow pace as hawks 

cross from one protruding canyon wall 

to the other. At night, a sky

never more star-filled in her life. 

She can form a fist, give a solid handshake,

an enthusiastic thumbs up. She 

loves the girl rendered

woman and mother; ponders what

makes the measure of a matriarch.

Her children tell her not to, but on a perfect

summer day she still cups her hands 

like a basin and drinks from the river.