Tag: crafting

your heart is not home

you didn’t know you could be lovesick
for a place, two years on
and no cobble-walking, tender for streets

even crosswalk signals; so when your mind sits light
on the task in hand, stitching waves
on ocean waves or maybe curled winter winds

you’re startled to see just that turn
of the Holzweg, the shop with wine-glass
windows, outdoor stacks of rugs

was it the sudden sun-glint on your cheek?
all your pieces wrapped in a rush
still swathed in paper, waiting

On Houseguests and Crochet

You come to meditation by thread
and hook, shutting as many doors
as you can between smiling
frustration and the rise and rise
of voices—smoke-deaf, she tends to loud
and knows something
of everything—used to solitude
you now crave it like drink
stealing sips in any dark corner
stitching round and round
because you can
use another pair of socks
and it’s too early for bed

Building the Dollhouse, Part 2

cream paint today—Buntlack
in the German which reminds me
there’s no hurry, not for me
(rain sounds like peace and wind
can’t rush it away)

if you’re a little older than when
we first dreamed up this project
that only means your skill
and taste have improved
but then I wonder

(the geese fly over
again the rain sighs
and stops)
if some twelve years of after-
adjustments have made you

want to leave these details
to me and should I be glad
you don’t mind?
we can’t be free of second-guessing
in any season

Building the Dollhouse

Firstly, and to my surprise
it gets me out of bed, mornings.
Planning the work—all this trim
cutting, paint, glue. What to do
while waiting for things to dry.

I wish I’d known sooner
not to keep these projects
out of sight, out of mind (spiders
gliding between rough-ridged
roof and basement window).

No, put it smack in the library
incongruously turquoise and yellow
in the mellow, bookish front room.
Cover the writing table with stuff
like paintbrushes, sandpaper, tape.

We said we would. We will.
From piles of unlabeled wood
like any noble endeavor, bit by bit
imperfect. You need to cheer
each day’s slight progress now

that we’ve stopped pretending
you care about construction.
Waiting for the decorating
you are here for color consults
to tell me when I have blue in my hair.

Scarf Daughter

black and white:
I made it
you wear it
sometimes

*

I don’t know how to feel only
the hands keep working
regardless
you hate the cold
we text about weather
the sun slowly moves now
across an ocean
we keep the same hours

*

we stood on that castle hill
sheep scattered below
dog racing slant impossible
angles everything else
insignificantly small

*

from the earth this chain
of lands, hands, shearers
spinners, makers
green grazing
storm sky
growling
wear that distant sun-root
with your attitude

*

love is not in the saying
and not in the doing
then where? the heart only
a physical thing
blood beating regardless

*

it’s called infinity
but of course
there is beginning and end
seamed together
with trust it won’t unravel

The Irish Basket-Maker

Rain all week, and we bent
to it, the storied views all blurred
green-blue, gray beyond the steady swipe
of windscreen wipers from Dublin
to Cork, Kerry to Clare, Galway to Spiddal
and from one more sweeping sea-drenched
cliff-drive we came to his shop–dry
earth-fragrant, stacks of tall willows
in surprising colors, nature-grown, stacks
of finished baskets, bowls. With sun-glint
smile he walked us through the shaping–
how these things are made deftly, steady
with patience.

PAD Chapbook Challenge, Day 2; the prompt is “surrender.”