threads to be woven later...

Homage to Linda Pastan's "threads to be woven later".

my mother
who never forgave me
for looking like my father

my brother
who could make me laugh like no other
and frighten me like no other

my grandmother
whose finger's absent-mindedly flew
around the tatting shuttle between rounds of
feeding gossip to her sisters' bird-like open mouths

my dad
whose big bear hugs i'll never feel again
but need every day

my soul
the first year it went to Scotland
and fell in love with mull's amethyst thistles
brighter than the purple fog wrapped around
rocky green mountain tops

my son
at 42 who still has his boyish giggle
and that trickster gleam in his gray-green dark lashed eyes

my head
full of characters
who wake me in the dark morning hours
demanding i tell their story

my island
with its gypsy water flowing toward the ionian shore
as it moves from azure to marble blue to steel gray

my son
whose eight-year-old hand drew
an anatomically correct valentine heart
surrounded by words of love for his dad and me

my elven-year-old self
pretending no one could see me
as i basked in the magical aroma
of grandpa's old spice and cherry pipe tobacco
while i sat in his chair
reading his saturday evening posts


rebekah for the poplar grove muse