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:
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
lOVE THIS POEM
Mmmm, no words except a heart full of appreciation!
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