Thursday, August 08, 2019

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: Selected Poems)

3 comments:

Kay G. said...

I wish I had known of this poem and I could have read it at my Dad's funeral. His hands were a farmer's hands, thick and calloused but quick to hold a child's small hand. Thank you for sharing this.


Ed

One Woman's Journey - a journal being written from Woodhaven - her cottage in the woods. said...

lOVE THIS POEM

Barbara R. said...

Mmmm, no words except a heart full of appreciation!