THE BASKET

Sitting on her lap, I gaze at arthritic hands, as old bent fingers thread string through packets of tightly bunched pine needles. Through her aged lips pass legends of people past, my people, people of my blood. Quietly she shifts position and pulls the thread tight, gripping it with yellowing teeth. Pushing the basket to my nose she tells me to smell. The honey sweet essence fills me. Now eons later her basket sits on my shelf. I hold it to my nose, breathe deeply, and think of her.

Reviews

[Miranda Richard]

Awesome poem, are you Native American?

[roarke]

wow, a bit of a change for you...
It''s great to have experiences like that with your grand parents. This is a great homage. Well done.

[Mary C]

an extraordinarily beautiful poem

[WhiteWillow]

A beautiful memory captured, and shared. Thank you!

[Vinod Kumar U K]

Hi voltage transformation.. very nice to read..

[Phibby Venable]

in so few words you have said so much. i love this. too many fine things
are lost.

[Klyn]

The legacy lives on....I only hope that my basket affects my people as profoundly. Beautiful.

[J]

the simplicity of this piece gives it its depth. just enough detail captures the love. the last sentence demonstrates your talent for few words conveying oceans of sentiment. well done, zeek.

[emmajoy]

I can see the picture you've painted with your words here. This is one of your finest posts, it has an amazingly big heart, it's truly memorable.

[Forest Green]

Memory's sensations...touch, see, scents detected on the quietest movements of thoughts in motion.

Well done...!