Monday, October 6, 2014

Poem for Annie's Curls

How strange these strands of silk, buckeye chestnut, mustang brown, not long enough to wrap your hand around, and each by itself insubstantial as dragonfly's flight to breast the wind, to guard against fire or ice, to add one dot to wisdom or peace or justice in the world-- yet each to its own, a coiling spring of joy. This single tendril a bolt of chromium steel with might to bind a strong father's heart for life. Written in dearest blood, his wish that his tiny Rapunzel will never know a tower, witch curse, careless climbing prince, that a loving dragon-father can keep her safe no matter how fierce the fanged shears of the world.

6 comments:

  1. Thanks for dropping by, Margaret. I'm so glad to see you again and to read your words. You write with such power and passion. This poem's on fire.

    I hope you're well. xo

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  2. Ms. A--- Nice to see you too! The wordless picture on your blog was so moving. I hope very much that you're well.

    Robyn--Thank you! I'll be posting more regularly now. And by the way, it looks to me from your picture that
    you're a curly-haired daughter...with a glorious smile.

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  3. Hi Margaret!
    It's been a while since I've had the pleasure of reading any of your great poetry.

    Okay, we have Ms. A, Robyn, you and me here. That is pretty cool because the four of us go back long ways together. That makes me happy, because I really like the three of you...

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  4. Pat Tillett--Yes, certain posts feel like home!

    By the way, I admired your photographs of the Red Hands images very much. Mysterious, but so human--probably our own ancestors from those times would seem just as unknown to us if we could see them.

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    1. Thanks! I think your are very right about that.

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