My children are like jewels on my forehead
Fine linen wrapped around my shoulders
They are also like mud on the hem of my garments
Spilled milk and broken ceramic under my feet
I told you several times to use two hands
In a mounting of gold they shine
In a framing of lead they are ruby colored glass
In a setting of the general public it is anyone’s guess
How they will behave
My lions are like the endless sun
My wolves are like the howling caves
My puppies piddle, and splash in it
My floors are the bone scattered den of a wide territory
My flower beds are tramped by
The enthusiastic gardener
My house plants drown
In an excess of attention
Let’s get one thing straight
No sepia tones here
No matching denim
No cute
This life is a battle of wills
Canvas captured or not
I’ve been presented the most profound wrinkled treasures
I’ve had them retracted by the giver on a whim
I’ve had whimsy reintroduced to my dry days
Grim life whim life
We stand outside and look for bat wings
Dim light soft flight
My world is gentler now
My strivings quieted by the mess around my feet
The thing that clings to my ankles when I’m trying to cook
I won’t shake it off
My shackles are strands of the finest gold
Decorate me in furs piled onto my divan, these squirming pups
My pièce de résistance
Post #16 of 40 Daze: A Lenten Writing Practice.
