walked me 6 blocks to 3rd grade every morning. i was making poems then by imitating...learned not to share them anymore when "worn & tender hands" became his hands in the eyes of my mother, who teased me without mercy.
I'm a cook. And I write, sometimes about food, mostly poems. I make stuff. I get lost. I'm worried about vanishing bees, melting icecaps, the decrease of civility in the world, seedless watermelons, and whether there will be enough time for me to get it all right.
2 comments:
Ugh! too bad...
took a long time...but i got over that! :^) (though it IS one of those memories that pops up during this year-long excavation project....)
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