I have this strange attachment to things
it has been there always
as if I could recognize some part of myself buried deep within
the downy fluff of a stuffed rabbit,
or
along the fragile pastern & cannon of a 3 inch glass horse
something
and
I have this strange knack of losing things I didn't know were of value;
my grandmother's quilt forgotten in a kappa delt house
a naked rabbit clock tucked behind a forgotten somewhere,
a spanish guitar left behind somewhere,
an austrian crystal necklace of tiny glass shells & flowers - the first spurge in a new town,
a picture my mother embroidered, over 50 years ago now, of a deer with a fawn, forgotten in a corner of a severed family branch
somewhere
is tucked a painting of dragons & orbs--still in its thin black frame
"I keep your picture
Up on the wall
It hides the messy stain
That's lying there
So don't you ask me to give it back"
well, I digress and you're beginning to get the picture
just recently I realized a green tufted footstool of my grandfathers is missing
not where it has been for 8 years
just gone
it is more than obvious to me that we leave pieces of ourselves with those
we love at every coming together and at every parting
but
it is the pieces that exist there in the inorganic ... the inanimate that stun me
the pieces of myself I have scattered to the corners & shadowlands
into hands I know not
the piece of me that dwells somewhere I can't see
is anything truly inorganic
are we not everywhere
in tiny glass flowers, in the soft forgiveness of a quilt,
and the pastern & cannon of horses ?
tufted, missing, fragility .... found & connected .
it has been there always
as if I could recognize some part of myself buried deep within
the downy fluff of a stuffed rabbit,
or
along the fragile pastern & cannon of a 3 inch glass horse
something
and
I have this strange knack of losing things I didn't know were of value;
my grandmother's quilt forgotten in a kappa delt house
a naked rabbit clock tucked behind a forgotten somewhere,
a spanish guitar left behind somewhere,
an austrian crystal necklace of tiny glass shells & flowers - the first spurge in a new town,
a picture my mother embroidered, over 50 years ago now, of a deer with a fawn, forgotten in a corner of a severed family branch
somewhere
is tucked a painting of dragons & orbs--still in its thin black frame
"I keep your picture
Up on the wall
It hides the messy stain
That's lying there
So don't you ask me to give it back"
well, I digress and you're beginning to get the picture
just recently I realized a green tufted footstool of my grandfathers is missing
not where it has been for 8 years
just gone
it is more than obvious to me that we leave pieces of ourselves with those
we love at every coming together and at every parting
but
it is the pieces that exist there in the inorganic ... the inanimate that stun me
the pieces of myself I have scattered to the corners & shadowlands
into hands I know not
the piece of me that dwells somewhere I can't see
is anything truly inorganic
are we not everywhere
in tiny glass flowers, in the soft forgiveness of a quilt,
and the pastern & cannon of horses ?
tufted, missing, fragility .... found & connected .
