Doilles everywhere
With young and critical eyes I saw them everywhere; those lifeless circles draped over objects which seemed to be a marker for relics and a symptom of antiquity. I touched them with small fingers, taught twisted yarn intertwined often in the form of a flower in surreal colors.
I watched as she sat and the movement of her arms, wrists, and needles caused a ripple of sound in the room. It came in waves and bounced off of my cheeks, the walls, and even down the rickety hall as she softly hummed.
Why, I wondered, why would she waste her time making these shapes? Had she not enough already? Foolishness I thought and went on my way.
Occasionally as I grew older I would see them again, catching my eye in an odd rustic place, taking me back to that warm summer room where the dust sparkled motionlessly in the light that braved my grandmother's window when her arms, wrists, and needles they moved.
Flutter flutter by, the passing of winter, summer, and spring. Backwards in a vacuum of thought I recede to toil in the details of trifles I knead.
To find resolution in a foreshadowed message. It's there I'm convinced, look deeper and farther again.
Why am I blind and see decoys at best, whilst ripples, the sound, and light manifest the life that is precious, the doilies a gift. Remind us that we were here once and exist. Occupants of time and space, the radiance and electricity from the life we emit, the precious, the priceless, the fragile, the gift.
How often do we question purpose and miss the warmth of our love and squander the chance...
To make ripples, sound, and light stand still again.
Flutter flutter by, the passing of winter, summer, and spring. Backwards in a vacuum of thought I recede to toil in the details of trifles I knead.
To find resolution in a foreshadowed message. It's there I'm convinced, look deeper and farther again.
I watched as she sat and the movement of her arms, wrists, and needles caused a ripple of sound in the room. It came in waves and bounced off of my cheeks, the walls, and even down the rickety hall as she softly hummed.
Why, I wondered, why would she waste her time making these shapes? Had she not enough already? Foolishness I thought and went on my way.
Occasionally as I grew older I would see them again, catching my eye in an odd rustic place, taking me back to that warm summer room where the dust sparkled motionlessly in the light that braved my grandmother's window when her arms, wrists, and needles they moved.
Flutter flutter by, the passing of winter, summer, and spring. Backwards in a vacuum of thought I recede to toil in the details of trifles I knead.
To find resolution in a foreshadowed message. It's there I'm convinced, look deeper and farther again.
Why am I blind and see decoys at best, whilst ripples, the sound, and light manifest the life that is precious, the doilies a gift. Remind us that we were here once and exist. Occupants of time and space, the radiance and electricity from the life we emit, the precious, the priceless, the fragile, the gift.
How often do we question purpose and miss the warmth of our love and squander the chance...
To make ripples, sound, and light stand still again.
Flutter flutter by, the passing of winter, summer, and spring. Backwards in a vacuum of thought I recede to toil in the details of trifles I knead.
To find resolution in a foreshadowed message. It's there I'm convinced, look deeper and farther again.