notes to self during:
thought of cinderella(misled by memory)
meaning vasilissa and psyche sorting the seeds
the tasks of women,
sifting the good from the bad,
the moths from the rice
and uses from others,
flax from oats
poppy from rice
we sort and sift
and hold onto that one careful handful of grain
or
that
sweet
perfect grey
stone
deep
in the pocket
for the precise moment when it fits
click
click
click
clunk
shift
(my watch sits pocketed too)
a tiny tic of impatience
suggests boredom with my task
then
it passes
shift, shift,
pluck,
set
set
set
one satisfactory moment followed by another
holding one perfect stone
and then another
another
shifting
a parcel of stones
clitter clack
resonance of the river
where woolf slipped stone upon stone in her (enormous) pockets
and slipped herself in the eddies.
giving up on shifting those slippery words into meaning.
her sorting done.
chaff floating in the breeze
the task lost
*when editing this, grain caught my attention and reminded me of this heart wrenching story recently in the NYTimes . . . at least Vasilissa had her doll.
