waxwings Posted May 24, 2009 Share Posted May 24, 2009 In fuzzy yarn, wrapped twice around, the bundle holds perhaps a pound of letters from a younger me she kept for years, in secrecy, and knew by whom they might be found. The house now empty. Echoes sound, as my feet tread familiar ground past work of spiders finely wound with fuzzy yarn. The reeds, half-charred, small mittens, browned, the pages smeared, where her tears drowned, all spared by fire, but not she…. I came too late. Too late I see how mother’s love for me was bound in fuzzy yarn. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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