Just one more before I call it a night
I'm on a roll. Can't stop now. Here's another poem. Hey, Mom, thanks for reading!
Scheherazade, Pen in Hand
I am following the thread of a poem
finding my way
between the folds of life’s cloth.
Sometimes sliding easily in
and out of silk,
capturing happy mothering moments,
precious three-year-old chatter
of handy dandy parking spots,
when we park up close,
cats as best friends,
the golden glow of slumber.
Other times I am jabbing a dull needle
through deep dark denim,
bending my pen around
frozen strands of stilted conversations,
the wide wale corduroy of being man and wife.
Always I am following that thread,
unspooling in long winding lines,
wrapping round corners,
Some days sewing cowboys
in my favorite color scheme
with golden hair and midnight hats.
Some days stitching
dark-haired, Indian-eyed baristas
into the back pocket of my sewing kit
as they stroke their goatees,
ask large or small, whole or skim.
I collect words in thimbles,
use pinking shears on newspapers, pump
my trundle in rhyme, sew closed
the holes in my socks
cut from magazines.
I will not stop until I am Scheherazade.