"As a child, I thought I'd been stitched together from scraps;
a quilted child..."
This description speaks to how so many of us are knit together, doesn't it?
A father descended from County Clare farmers,
a mother from a German adoptee and a sulky driver from Sligo.
The quilt gets more intricate with each generation.
"I think I am the child of too many poems instead."
Somewhere back in time, somewhere in my line of succession;
perhaps even several someone's,
I'd like to believe, lived a poet or two.
Jotting musical words as she waited for dinner to simmer,
or at a kitchen table during nap time,
or sitting on the floor in the bathroom
as children played in the tub.
Someone who wrote on pages no longer existing.
Pages decayed or burned or discarded with their things.
Written for fun or from longing or sorting things out,
not for an audience.
Stitched together from poems.
kastilwell
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