My father told me that his grandmother, Minnie, used to
make quilts. They were not art, he assured me, just made up of
snippets of old clothes , so as not to waste fabric and used to keep
warm. He remembers one, he says, all in grays and blacks and plaids.
Not art, he says, not meant to be beautiful.
Sounds like beauty to me. Maybe even art...
Saturday, October 03, 2015
poem
things we measure
pages, words,
slope the descent of a line the
number of heartbeats
kisses & tides & bodily fluids
all attempts to control categorize order arrange
bound & connected
by the things we cannot measure
aura, intention, arrival
reflection
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