Friday, October 9, 2009

About the title

I have loved this poem since I first read it.  It captures so clearly the historically-female ties that bind. I like to interpret the poem further, and use it as a reminder that the smallest tasks, the "daily," are what comprise life--of what we (men and women of all creeds) truly live for.


These shriveled seeds we plant,
corn kernel, dried bean,
poke into loosened soil,
cover over with measured fingertips

These T-shirts we fold into
perfect white squares

These tortillas we slice and fry to crisp strips
This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl

This bed whose covers I straighten
smoothing edges till blue quilt fits brown blanket
and nothing hangs out

This envelope I address
so the name balances like a cloud
in the center of sky

This page I type and retype
This table I dust till the scarred wood shines
This bundle of clothes I wash and hang and wash again
like flags we share, a country so close
no one needs to name it

The days are nouns:  touch them
The hands are churches that worship the world

 ~ Naomi Shihab Nye ~

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