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A tapestry appears in my mind’s eye,
An angel, a child sleeping, inspires me.
A subject interpreted in many ways,
I set up the loom, laying the threads.
A weaver of words, I tell myself,
Can create a picture the reader can see.
The threads I’m working just tangle up,
Distorting what I’m trying to weave.
Write what you know, is a good idea,
That image was out of my league.
A dog, his blankie, and a cold winter’s night,
Now that’s simple enough for me.
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Gail Deemer (butchiesmom@yahoo.com)
writes, “I was trying to write a
poem one day, and the words just wouldn't come, so I started writing
a poem about being unable to write a poem and this wrote itself.” |
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