by Howard Nemerov
Old friend, patient of error as of accuracy,
Ready to think the fingerings of thought,
You but a scant year older than I am
.
Old friend, patient of error as of accuracy,
Ready to think the fingerings of thought,
You but a scant year older than I am
.
.
.
To see you standing there for six decades
Containing chopsticks, Fur Elise, and
The Art of Fugue in your burnished rosewood box,
As well as all those years of silence and
The stumbling beginnings the children made
To see you standing there for six decades
Containing chopsticks, Fur Elise, and
The Art of Fugue in your burnished rosewood box,
As well as all those years of silence and
The stumbling beginnings the children made
.
.
.
(the whole poem is at The Writer's Almanac)
Men Throwing Bricks
by Michael Chitwood
The one on the ground lofts two at a time
with just the right lift for them to finish
their rise as the one on the scaffold turns
to accept them like a gift and place them
on the growing stack. They chime slightly
on the catch. You'd have to do this daily,
morning and afternoon, not to marvel.
(this poem can be found at The Writer's Almanac)
There is such a beauty in the ordinariness of life -- the things around us that we sometimes look at without seeing, but which hold so much meaning inside our memories -- watching others do hard work with ease and grace (or finding those moments of ease and grace in one's own work).
Ordinary: the screen door to the back yard of my childhood home. And yet, when I look at that picture, I hear the sound of the door handle, and feel the lush grass on my bare feet, the heat of the morning sun on the patio.
Elaine has today's Poetry Friday roundup at Wild Rose Reader.
