These T-shirts we fold intoperfect 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)
2 comments:
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Naomi Shihab Nye always hits the spot. Honestly, reading this makes me look at my messy kitchen table with a lot more gentleness. There is a quiet magic in folding laundry or slicing vegetables when we actually slow down to feel the texture of our days. It turns boring chores into a beautiful sort of gratitude. Thanks for putting this on my feed today, I needed that little pause.
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