I was picking dandelion bouquets
to place on my mother’s lap
My youth almost spent, I asked,
how long will I be old?
Age last longer than youth.
And those who see only age spots and skin
will look at faded images
and in their dotage say,
I don’t even have to be be a beauty
for such a remark
my youth will speak,
shout out from those graphs:
Look! How young.
Books have changed my life. Blogs have changed my life too. Keep reading and writing what is true, dear reader, the written word is powerful.
This Portrait of Anton Chekhov was done by his brother:
“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” Anton Chekhov.
A basket sits in memory,
It held: needles, buttons, thread,
a tomato pincushion,
(you know the kind.)
And the good scissors
with the empty orange eyes-
I was not to touch.
So used to your body
I roll over, reach out
and the indented sheets
startle me. I forgot,
You’ve gone again.
I vacuum our bedroom
and caught your shoe lace,
so quickly it spun and thumped
I put them to bed,
your babies. I kissed them,
blessed, tucked in, soothed.
The way I do.
They asked for you.
Alone and half dressed,
in our bed with
I wait for you to ring.
A babe stoops and outstretches his hand,
Mothers still wail uncomforted and
Holy Innocents’ blood was spilt for this,
To see the Christ Child write in sand.
The glorious work of bees and man
I see in these small drops of wax;
Dripped as if to seal prayers fast.
I see moons, lilies and vigils past,
With opened rubrics across my lap.
Drowsy in our sheets,
left to the tending,
I hear the front door fasten.
Much can be conveyed in four lines:
Wang Chien 768-830
The New Wife
On the Third day she went down to the kitchen,
Washed her hands, prepared the broth.
Still unaware of her new mother’s likings.
She asks his sister to taste.
You are not “adulting” you are acting like a mature adult . It would seem that Grown ups have all died, we are now left with immature, socialistic baby boomers and millennials “adulting” through life.