I keep a notebook on me constantly; it's a writer thing. My notebook is a bit of a hodgepodge of list, schedules, reminders, timetables, and random writing. I was flipping through it the other day (it's been so long since I went grocery shopping for myself and I couldn't remember what I eat on a regular basis, so I was looking at old grocery lists) when I came across a poem I wrote a while ago. So here goes:
My sister
Makes beautiful things
Of wood and paper and glass
Spun colors and
Balancing lights
That inspire awe
like the sea in July
or birds in the spring
Or a London street
at twilight, glow of lamps
on the rain.
Beauty and resource,
everyday ease and
the type of things
that make a home to envy.
She takes
the pictures of her mind
and gives them life,
Shapes them until
they become like Pandora,
Perfect and purpose.
I create
something from
black on white,
struggle and scribble,
And hope to somehow find
The kind of color she beams:
A story with some beauty,
Some use.
