Crocheting A Scrapbook
by Odin odin@aflx.com — Read all 3,869 poems by Odin odin@aflx.com
For me, having spent considerable time with my parents in nursing homes, I often found the experience very unpredictable, as if I were looking through a window witnessing an existence of life defying our normal perceptions, embracing instead their coming world of expectation. (Image by Pinterest)
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Crocheting a Scrapbook
by Odin Roark
Nursing homes know
arts and crafts,
become valued pastimes,
some with smiles,
some with hooded foreshadow.
How tenuous,
how earnest ,
mixed genders
sitting in circles
anxiously hooking
thick wool string,
their tendrils of perpetuity,
threading dreams,
shawls of protection,
scarfs of statement,
booties of tomorrow.
Human trees of life,
now but withered branches
shedding leaves of time
by twig-like fingers,
punctuating yesterday
with every hole by hole entry,
every stitch by stitch attachment
allowing Age's changing colors
to float blithely
earthward,
and beyond.
Like observant wings on high,
we can but gaze down upon
Time's swirling visions in slow motion,
a vortex permitting but a glimpse
of our own yet-to-come reality.
For now…
We ride the draft,
peering safely from afar
as seasoned providence
weaves lessons into
what is still to come.
Perhaps something melancholy,
something to cherish,
something to become part of remembrance,
until it’s our time.
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Also reminds me of the time they wanted me to learn how to make potholders (for a living?) rather than go back to college. On the other hand, my aunt was an avid crochet weaver after retiring from nursing. I don't think she ever spent a day in a nursing home. Although she had to put her abusive first husband in a veterans' home.
Ron
Love ya!
Jane
enjoyed the read
"We ride the draft
peering safely from afar
as seasoned providence
weaves lessons into
what is still to come."
Amen. John