12 July 2014

Domestic Arts

scraps of fabric threaded through with
miniscule stitches, this third
cousin, once removed, from the
grand tapestries hung on cold stone
walls, destined for the domestic
sphere, no less a place for
art than the cool whiteness of
the museum, art in
practicality, in memory, too, the
strips of cloth reminding one of
a long-ago summer and
how the crickets sang out in
unison, the unexpected
concert a final blessing to
the day, the lightning bugs
blinking out their morse code,
our glasses drained and bed awaiting

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