Imagining the poem I will write,
I remember that I haven't hemmed
my daughter's choir dress.
It has to be done this morning.
What was the poem?
Did it have a hem in it?
Would I have stitched it carefully,
making a fine line like embroidery
at its edges? Where does a poem go
when chores startle it away?
To the mending basket to wait,
torn or frayed, until my needle
finds it again?


  1. Ahhhh life. It certainly tries its best to get in the way of writing. You've captured that perfectly.


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