Can one actually die of sorrow? I am tired, I tell my husband and children. So tired of the labor of the everyday, compounded by labors of the spirit. The hours roll up the dust of our time like a scroll, like a rug, like a badly frayed book cover that wants sewing. I am the curved needle pushing from one station to the next, trying my best to keep the signatures tightly pressed together. Mend and make, re-make and mend, so the body can keep going somehow. Daily I build a little shed with words; I'll come when called for dinner, until I can't.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
