Wednesday, August 5, 2020

Unlikely container



And yet who's to say what a leaf, what a hand, what thought may hold. What spoon, a sauce. A pen, the final period.


2 comments:

  1. Close up as a slide in a magnifying lens
    I am remembering the welcoming hand
    into the front room as she called it,
    the cups set for tea,
    the spoons set for milk'
    the bowl for sugar
    and the cookies cut the day before
    by me and my sister.
    That window that looked out on old trees
    and new birds, that uncut grass
    supposed to be done by sunday
    and the swing that hung from the old tree
    by the chicken coop, the fresh eggs
    picked by me and my sister.
    The tree, the grass, the hands, the sister.

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