before silver stole her youth,
sewed a seam around her face,
time and worry puckering her skin
skillfully as the broadcloth darts
and pleats once formed under sparrowing
hands. She, she does not grow
old, as we that are left grow old: age shall not weary her,
nor the years condemn, at the coming up of the sun, in the twilight, at the fraying
of a hem. At night, surprised
by sunpocked moon,or in winter, yearning
for grass-threaded ground, it is her we seek
in the space between inhale/exhale, between blinks,
between silence/sound. This stone, instead, holds her place
suspended timeless between these dates.
2 comments:
I really like "under sparrowing hands"--just lovely!
I'd suggest making it puckered instead of puckering.
The "silver stole her youth" I get, but it took me a few readings and it still doesn't sit well with me. It feels too forced.
The sentence "She, she does...of a hem." needs some work. Feels forced and heavy handed.
I also wonder about the stone at the end. You've done so much with the sewing images, I feel like it should be something related to sewing here instead.
I love, love this one..the rhythm, the truth in it, palpable.
Though I like the repetition of 'she', I wonder if it needs the 2nd one to be on a separate line. The final line needs a touch of work to be as beautiful as the rest of it. Perhaps starting with 'Instead,'; perhaps a question of line break?
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