23 August 04
Precept
Forty-five years ago today, I was born not too far from here.
My mother and I have grown closer over the years; the connection has been writing. I send her a poem, she sends me one, kind of thing.
This is the one she sent me for today:
Precept
Even then,
our little girl
saw beauty
in a snail on the move
whose disguise
lies in doing things
slowly.
She painted one,
not in camouflage
but strident walnut taupe,
for its journey up
a sturdy turquoise blade
that dared to stab awake
the lasting
blue.
Her work hangs,
now in a wood frame,
part of this empty house,
and I’m seventy.
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congratulations!!!!!!!!! :-)))
Felicidades! all the best!
45 pulls in your ear!
hugs,
I love the practice you have of exchanging birthday poems. We always did the same with my grandfather on his birthday; the last poems my mother and I wrote for him, before he died, were a reworking of Blake’s The Tyger and The Lamb. You understand why I’m so smitten-at-a-distance with your recent foundling.
(Our other practice was adding birthday numbers together to get your “real” age. You’re not 45, your’re 9: go out and do something that would make your nine-year-old self happy.)
Happy birthday! I hope you celebrated in style.