h.b.irwin

Mama’s Floral Bedspread (or something about fog)

In Uncategorized on July 31, 2007 at 3:53 pm

“Need a Job?” the tiny box inquired, colored the dull dye of dingy bath water used trice over for the children and Mama.

 “No”, I replied in confident gracefulness that one only has  when talking to an inanimate object, “I need to go Home.

“These streets have tethered me for too long, and I have been rushing around this hub of dirt like a dizzy fly circling rubbish. This grimy black that covers the bottoms of my feet is not the same black sot of the forest. But the vacuum went out 2 months ago and Mama’s old broom can only sweep the kitchen. I long for the green leaf, riper than painted shutter or pot of cabbage, and the fresh rigid bark scrapping the palms of my hands as I scale the Tree of Life (I’ll have to leave the Tree of Knowlegde for another day). I haven’t the time even to think of it, the pots are boiling, the pans are soiled, Papa is groaning, but the pines are so inviting. Oh to the wild honey  bees, the dark soil of hte purest brown hue, the flowers, and even the thorny branch that has learned to protect itself much better than I have. THat branch would never sit on Mama’s floral bedspread hiding for Papa. His thorns are gentle, never seeking to harm, but if you get to close, just you try and break that branch, just you try!

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