POETRY
The Seamstress
Don’t ask me why I wrote this
Big health setback, folks. I’m sorry I can’t read your stuff. I’ve not been able to be active on here. Life can sometimes kick you in the teeth, but a “Why me?” and “God, please make this stop” approach are ineffective strategies.
For any Americans reading this, I wish you a happy Thanksgiving.
I’ll leave you with this poem that was sitting in my Drafts folder, a product of my divine feminine energy one day. Why the subject of an old-timey seamstress? I’ve no idea.
See the pride in her face,
Above the sturdy oak chair
Where this silky character drapes,
Yielding fine and steady care,
Like with a stitch or a thorn,
Still greater than a mild degree,
Upon each new day born.
Oh how minds cannot flee
When like a pendulum clock,
Hath sewn old garments of cloth
That tell but will not talk,
Nor never full of froth.
The threads that bare her name,
Wound tight like a Haskell ball
As the European robin sings its claim
To a beautiful-sounding call.
Whether a Gossamer gown of gold,
All the thinking remains a thought:
Pray the chore never gets old,
As the absence of love is fraught
With loneliness and despair
Yet only mindfulness presides
Over the fretful, innermost sighs.
