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.
 

Daily

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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