Emily B

to the Lost Boys



I am no Wendy;
but my voice brings you back to me.
And you sit around my feet,
anxious for a story
or a kiss.

Listening to my words
spinning adventures,
like so much golden thread;
spellbound by my gentle whisper.

You are welcome to stay,
through spring rain
and autumn crisping,
though you still search
for someone with soft hands
and bountiful breast.

And when my gracious gifts spill over
from my full-grown lap,
you scoop them up with wondrous hands
and all the hunger
of a Lost Boy.

*****************************************

Emily is sewing, her threads kept
in a pale blue can
There is a cameo on the lid
in white, in profile
She is working with small pieces
that grow large and wander
out the kitchen window
Soon they scatter the neighborhood
which is so small that no one takes
notice
They cross the mountains
into the cities, that pause,
in pleasure
There is a measure in the cloth
that they like
There is a voice somewhere
where the threads have worn soft
Emily has thrown away
some old patterns,
She has knotted the thread
with gentle teeth
She has pulled it tight
to make sure it will hold
Emily is sewing
with her luminous needle
Her eyes on alert
for dropped stitches.
--Phibby Venable

*******************************************

The older I get, the less I remember to filter the words that flow from my brain to my mouth. I move quickly from one thought to another or I linger too long on something that was said five minutes ago. If you find that I've left "the verb and the pronoun out" of some exchange between us. Let me know. I'll get it together and we'll have a pleasant conversation.

*************************************************