feithline's profile

Some words are so like hyacinth, like blooming magnolia that I can grieve their loss can hover and buzz confused as bees who find sugar water where lilacs should live. Bees don't linger long. I've watched the impossible hover, that bumbling mid-flight change in direction. I've taken lessons, and if the scent of promise, or a contract of blooms led me wrong, well, I grieve, yes, but I fly on.

I I wrote once of hands, compared them to fine-boned birds. I wanted them on these hips feather light, then coming down, home to roost. I wanted them not knowing they were better for clinging for plucking, for taking, for chiseling at what was already winged and in flight. II The first hands I knew were like weather. A flurry, then a stillness, then a storm. III Hands now are neither birds or weather. They are not potter's hands, do not think clay when blood and muscle meet their touch. They ...