Thursday, February 26, 2009

moving target

26 February 2009

Time is a moving target in its banks--
like dunes I barely own before they shift,
take on a different shape, a different place.
They move into a different time, and I
no longer recognize the clouds or sky
above them, much less this landscape
the river never ceases to mold.

Monday, February 02, 2009

beautiful disaster

1 February 2009

Mom's sewing projects were disasters
of monumental proportions, but her wrecks
were always confined to the sewing machine cover,
strings of all hues, lengths and thicknesses
peeking out from among countless castoff swatches
of every imaginable color, shape and size.

The outcome of every venture was a masterpiece--
from Raggedy Anne to wedding dresses
that outlasted their respective marriages.

She had a gift, and she gave it to me.
I pull it out seldom, and with much effort
in the way of enthusiasm. I never nurtured the skill,
and I lack the talent of my forebears.

Just enough of my mother's grace exists
in my fingers to bless my own girl with a moment
like the moments of my childhood, to recreate
the beautiful disaster in some small way,
make the little girl I was a part of her.

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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