Thursday, May 28, 2015

Thursday Poem - Daily

These shriveled seeds we plant,
corn kernel, dried bean,
poke into loosened soil,
cover over with measured fingertips

These T-shirts we fold into
perfect white squares

These tortillas we slice and fry to crisp strips
This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl

This bed whose covers I straighten
smoothing edges till blue quilt fits brown blanket
and nothing hangs out

This envelope I address
so the name balances like a cloud
in the center of sky

This page I type and retype
This table I dust till the scarred wood shines
This bundle of clothes I wash and hang and wash again
like flags we share, a country so close
no one needs to name it

The days are nouns:  touch them
The hands are churches that worship the world

Naomi Shihab Nye
(from The Words Under the Words)

2 comments:

Kameshwari said...

Oh, to feel the sacred ordinary so deeply engrained in our everyday ordinary.

This poem makes the moment so sensual, so alive!

sandra hagan said...

it is the daily, the ordinary, that saves us.