Some poems are mundane moments with something to teach. Tonight I was embroidering a pattern stitch. I stitch unevenly. The pattern at the end is obvious, but far from perfect. Some lines are longer than others. Where I tied off the end too tightly the fabric puckers with no sign of a kiss. I like to think that it's the only way to know that it was done by my hand.
Then there are mundane moments that will never be a poem because they are just lovely. Sometimes life is lovely without teaching you a thing. Lying on my back in the grass on a summer evening at the park, my niece jumped on top of me. Her blue eyes shone and behind her the sky was dusky blue. I thought, "this is why my favorite color is blue".
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Linda you think poetically...and that is part of what makes you so special.
lovely
Post a Comment