In Which There is A Child and a Mother Who Sews
How curious is the child
He twists and turns aimlessly
Transforms into something not even he knows
He stands with confidence
He is proud.
He is a heron,
He delights in his crookedness
The river flows and ebbs as he floats along
How happy he is.
Peculiar child.
He hears the floorboards begin to creak
Dust piles on the armoire
His mother sits in her rocking chair
She watches.
She embroiders his tapestry
She undoes stitches and restitches
Automaton
Her needle goes in straight lines.
How neatly she stitches.
The boy wakes in the morning
He counts his fingers and toes.
They are used well from his travels
Covered in soot and memories
He smiles
He peers through the gingham curtain
He sees his mother stitch and unstitches and restitch
He thinks her foolish
She thinks him
Perplexing child.
He takes his tapestry from his mother
Wears it like a cape.
Dirties and ruddies it
Stains it in cranberry juices
He twists and turns aimlessly
But will never care
He is proud
He delights in his crookedness.
How happy he is.
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