Filigree

What to do on a day of snow with more on the way? I read and marked my papers, washed all the laundry that could be washed then put a pot to simmer on the stove; I gave the jasmine in the window bay its drink of water, turned all drawers inside out to clean and straighten, and closets too— And the floor was cold but I wanted to feel the grain of the wood smooth against my insteps. Outside, light wove its feeble nets and raised them higher above the trees. It was so quiet, and the glint of ice so bright and milky, pearling on the backs of deck chairs like crowns of baby teeth. I folded blankets and sorted scarves threaded with linen floss, lavish with vines and buds; and found cunning hoops of brass still in their folds of thinnest tissue. I held up what I’d kept or hoarded then found anew— I knew what I’d paid for, why I’d wanted the touch, the shimmer or shape of whatever it was that charmed and broke apart from its backdrop in that store window— A gift I’d bring to you in perfect time; its meaning, that I have not forsaken.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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