Monday, January 24, 2011
Tears to Patch
My laundress is in her workroom
looking at tears to patch.
I see her there and wonder
why she won't throw up the latch
to bolt away from the dirty duds
and suds and floods of mud.
Emily at the age of three,
loves rhymes of the nur-ser-y.
To her I read this very week,
A stone therein I think is found,
a step to my novel in play?
The bunny lass a bar maid was
I wonder why she ran
away from the gentlemen in Pen Inn;
whatever was her plan?
She brought her baggage in a cart
and carried a mystery in her heart.
Inspiration is a fascination;
Beatrix Potter, who’d have thought so?
My laundress might have done the same
if inclined to such she’d been so,
but apparently not says her history;
she was faithful to her lot.
Something there was though
that made up a puzzle
as she washed and patched the tears.
Passing her shuttle through the weave
to make a new tapestry,
she wove the tear asunder into new mystery.