Image © Karen Maes
These small sorrows are mine,
and they belong to the world.
Clothes that the children have outgrown
disgorge from its mouth, brightly.
I pull at them, a veined mass of scarves,
winding-sheets, unwind unto the kitchen floor.
Here, a piece for dress-up, a flowery veil,
a robe. It could dress a dynasty.
The white napkins (plain)
A tablecloth (embroidered)
flutter on the year’s edge, &
the flowers beneath my feet do not bloom
I can feel their stir under the loam.
Ragbag is © C.Murray