Thursday, November 01, 2007
who writes, the one who spills family secrets
onto the page like so much grape juice
on beige carpet -- creating continent-shaped
stains that are slow to fade and never disappear
from Poetry on the Bus
My mother's hands are silken gloves
Woven of the warmest thread,
Embroidered by the day, year, life.
Each caress a flower,
A vine ...
Strength etched in lines.
For this I strive,
This tapestry of life accomplished:
Instead of gold, a softly callused cloth.