Berlin 1917
What does she think about
while she stitches
pictures
of bees and flowers?
She’s dreaming of the days ahead,
so different than the ones that came.
Before her brother died in the Great War.
Before her husband disappeared in France.
Before her children brought home stolen food,
to fill the empty pots and pans.
Quietly she stitches
listens to each prick and the silky sound
of drawn red thread.
There are birds outside in the linden trees
No bombs or tanks or runaway steeds.
She looks up.
It’s almost time for coffee and the
little cakes baked just for
Sunday afternoon.
April 2008, 060809
People who used to know us
called us ‘sisters’
and rolled their eyes.
Our lives were braided together.
Knitted and knotted,
such dense texture
of opposite-ness,
yin-yang-ness.
Like silk with glass,
or wood and wire.
Our radiant, rare fabric.
Now the loops are looser.
A net to reach further,
from London to this far west small town.
(foggy, both.)
But we catch bright fishes in it.
Fishes and stars.
02/13/08; rev 02/20/08, 02/27/08
written for my friend Sara, whose birthday is today.
