Thursday, July 11, 2024

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
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)

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