a quiet day that spread sun and cloud equally through the day. sun hot enough to make us sweaty and lazy and then the cloud would breeze over to cool it all off. and now, late in the day, we are settled inside, for the rainstorm that kept threatening, finally took over. the mantle clock, with it's spring works that tom winds by hand, is like the room's heartbeat. steady and echoey with that double tick that would confuse me as a child. i would count it as two. and every minute or so there is the odd arhythmia that happens. the ticks shudder together. maybe it is exactly every minute as it registers the movement of the minute hand. it's very sound makes the room feel more silent.
i'm filling up with poetry lately. ezra curls beside me and listens to my whispers. poetry has to be heard. i have to form the words. i whisper as i read. and the quilts i make carry the words of my whispered reading. the latest is emily dickinson. just tiny little phrases of lovely. so i filled a quilt with them. 'the little sentences i began and never finished. the little wells i dug and never filled'. i write the words with my sewing machine and fall more in love with them. there is a new and stronger connection as i feel the words becoming something with thickness and shadows and warmth.